A hunter captured
by Naniris
Summary: Sharing food, drink and company is humanizing in its own way, yet more than that a Smoker finds himself on the verge of breakthrough whether he survives it or not. Side story.
1. A hunter captured

A hunter captured

Chapter 1

_The high burns, the dark is bright, the tunnels gone. Prey on the move, prey leaving hunting grounds, prey heading towards the green, the wide, the low. Follow. Slow. Careful. Eat the small on four legs. Not the same. Wait. The loud hurts. Alone better. Wait. Rest. Watch. Rest. Listen. Rest._

_New meat! No, more loudstingdeath, nononono. Wait. A big mover, fast mover, prey leaving, nonono. Mineminemine. Follow. Jump. Quick. Hide. Jump. Fast. No rest, chase. Wait. Many big prey. Only me. Mineminemine. New high? New high! Many loudstingdeath! Run, hide. No strongbeast, no longtongue, no bigblinder, no killcrier, no mobpack. No brothers, only me. Good. Mineminemine. Wait. Rest. Watch. Rest. Listen. Rest._

* * *

A haggard bear of a man, 27 years old going on 80, came into a makeshift command center. Jameson was a Sergeant less than three months ago, but the near collapse of the chain of command left him unsure if he was technically a General, a Major or Supreme Commander Extraordinaire at this point. Everyone just called him Sir. "Is that son of a bitch still out there?"

A former computer tech with lanky limbs and a nasty pink scar over the back of his head, clicked to enlarge a video relay of the southern perimeter on the screen. "Yep, four days and counting, sir." He stretched the kinks out of his back and wiped his eyes. "Word has spread around the camp about it. According to that last batch of survivors we picked up, same infected has been following them since the city."

"How can they tell, Parker?" He looked down on the older man, sure that the leak originated from him. However, when dealing with a serious deficit of human resources, especially a particular skill set, some lack of discretion must be tolerated.

Parker was now keeper and master of the only known working surveillance system capable of picking up heat signatures and differentiating the higher temperatures of the infected from the immune. A better solution than printed flyers and signs had been. After all, asking traumatized, belligerent and sick with relief people to hold up their hands in the middle of a cornfield with no decent cover was barely reasonable at the best of times and impossible when a vicious pack is trailing behind. Those mistakes have taught a hard lesson and led to more soldiers' suicides and friendly fire than he'd ever admit to.

"The sleeve it's missing. Apparently one of them ripped it off trying to save someone rather than just shooting his head off. Stupid heat of the moment. The thing carried their friend away up a roof to finish up." He smiled wide, showing off the gap where his front teeth should have been.

"After that they stayed huddled together, with at least two people awake at all times. Heh, you know that short business man with the crazy mustache with them, he dozed off a little. Woke up just in time to see the thing crouched like a foot behind the chick with the fake leg. She was the only one really awake, didn't hear a thing. Shot, missed it, almost hit her with the ricochet, she turns to scream at him, and elbows the thing straight out the window." Parker laughed hard at that and wiped at his eyes again.

Jameson would never understand how the battered man could find it remotely funny, especially after nearly dying himself. "Smarter than the average hooded mutt. Probably waiting for some careless drop in our defenses. That's not going to happen." …again.

"Why don't you have someone just snipe it? There's no other infected for at least a hundred miles to hear the gunshot. After that 'hunter' tried jumping unto one of our gun towers we've done a bunch of recons and I even checked the satellite images. If there was a horde headed this way, we would have seen it. They're sticking to the cities and suburbs mostly."

"If it were completely up to me, it'd be shot, beheaded, incinerated and sealed in an airtight grave." A disgusted sigh escaped his lips. "Those scientists from CEDA that were holed up here still working on their petri dishes as the hired security stumbled outside. They're thinking of capturing it as a guinea pig. Been begging for one of the freakish ones for a while now. Especially a mutt mutated just enough to still be considered human, but not like the regulars in which the infection isn't developed enough to study it for a cure."

Parker glanced up, noting the scowl and hooded eyes. "You don't think that they can make a cure."

"Ever since the government outsourced part of our defense to private companies, I don't trust a word of it. For them it's money, not duty. Not that it matters anymore. Now it's just survival." A quirk of his mouth, pained and sorrowful. "Those things are soulless. The way they rush after people and just beat them down. If I were more religious, I'd say they're demon possessed." A pause and a rumbling deep breath filled the room. "There's no coming back from that." He straightened his back and settled his face.

The tech took up the pace to fill in the silence. "The lab coats already spread their gospel of hope, it can be treated, everything back to normal; grandma and the kids will be home with Rascal barking up a storm if only they can finish up that darn cure and shoot it into the clouds. It'll rain down from heaven and wash the bad away, just you wait." Parker scratched softly at the back of his head, his scalded skin tender still. "Yeah, I don't think they can do it either. But they got most of the people here wrapped around that dream. Hate to say it, even your soldiers. It wasn't you who gave the order to stop shooting. It was miss Dr. Reilly May, head researcher in biotechnology here at outpost Bumfuck, Nowhere."

Jameson glanced sideways at Parker and pointed at the crouching figure pacing amongst the trees on the screen. "What did you call him? A hunter?" It wasn't that he ignored what the scarred man had just said. More that his mind developed little hiccups in memory to put aside experiences that made him want to rampage, crush and destroy people whom went against all logic and reason, especially his own.

Parker was more than used to this. He had personal experience in the matter of what happened if he didn't let it slide. "Yeah, you know those four survivors with the terrible luck. Got picked up at Fairfield, helicopter crashed. Picked up again at Riverside by boat, the engine failed and they had drift to Newburg and actually caught a plane. Plane too damaged from those chinless gorilla-hulk-things, made an emergency landing near Allegheny of all places two days after we left. They're over at Theta base now. Everyone on the radios knows who they are. Some call them legendary. Some even call them bad omens. They got names for the special ones. Tank, Boomer, Smoker, Witch. They call your favorite mutts Hunter on account of their behavior."

"I can see why." He touched the screen again, his finger over the creature's head as though trying to smother it. "Humanity will still be at the top of the food chain once this is over. All the others try to beat, crush, strangle or slash at the immune, but once we're dead, they're done and move on. They gorge on our bodies when hunger hits." Jameson's voice deepened, practically a growl. "Not this bastard, it has to shower in our blood, throw it around like kid playing in a tub, teeth stained red with it. I'll have it knocked down. Reilly can have her test subject; I hope that taming the beast requires neutering and loads of negative reinforcement."

A short shove of his chair away, disguised at having to reach for something at the corner of the desk. Parker started playing with a pen instead of fire. "What are you going to do then? I'm with you a hundred and ten percent of the way, you know that right?."

"What else? Set a trap." His smile was a terrible thing.

* * *

_So many, all mine. Mineminemine. Hungry. Wait. Dark. Watch. Soon. Wait…Now?!... No, wait. Rest. Wait. Noise! Prey?! Four legs…nomnomnom…more? No._

_Wait. Noise. Big noise? Big prey! Alone! Dark! Alone! Mineminemine! Surprise. Up high green. Wait…wait…wait…crouch…wait…alone…wait. NOW. Jumpscreechpouncetackle. Happy._

_Bright?! PAIN. RUN. ESCAPE. RUN. PAINpainrunrunrun…HEAVY ON ME! trap? NONONONONO! TRAP!...click?... Loudstingdeath, no! Struggle. Free. Loudstingdeath? No loud. No sting. Prey near. Attack? No. Trap. Wait. Hurt… tired… hurt… pain… whimper._

* * *

The volunteer bait was a pro football player in his prime, practically a slab of hard muscle, and right now he wouldn't be getting up for at least a day. Bruised, maybe broken, ribs and a concussion, nothing worse thanks to the protective gear. The offending assaulter was a foot shorter and looked half the athlete's weight at the most liberal of estimates and it couldn't wait to up and leave right now. A single floodlight immersed the scene in stark contrasts as the body wrenched itself around the ground in spasms, growls and shrieks cutting in and out.

Jameson came to a middle ground with Dr. May. While she would have preferred a less damaging way of capture, the idea of a net was tossed around and laughed at, it was either high voltage electricity or bullets. The infected were quite resilient against chemical tranquilizers so judging the right amount was too much like Russian roulette for everyone involved.

She had watched from the computer screens as it set itself up the tree, the heat readings from its legs elevating as though charging for its attack. The disorienting ambush, that horrifying shriek, the crushing impact, the quickness of it all; when viewed on several screens with different angles, force readings streaming down the side, heat readings in real time, it was beautifully elegant.

And from those videos she saw that it wasn't succumbing to the painfully numbing currents and the soldiers' resolve to hold their fire was dwindling rapidly. She ran out, ignoring Jameson's insincere chiding about putting herself in danger. By the time she got through the gates and unto the clearing, a soldier in protective clothing had managed to restrain the subject's legs well and the arms barely, but the claws had done enough damage to the suit that its wearer was getting residually shocked as well. For safety, he dismounted the trapped infected that continued to screech, yelp and flail in despair, too uncoordinated to free itself.

A young boy dressed like a soldier stood shaking, his rifle already raised. He cocked, aimed and removed the safety when the scientist stood in front of him. "Don't you dare shoot! Not when we're this close." The special infected struggled more fiercely at the sounds of a gun, the electric cables tethered to it twisting around. At that inopportune moment the generator shorted out and Reilly realized that she was within grabbing distance of the so-called hunter. She didn't look behind her and spoke softly enough to hide the tremor creeping through her core. "No matter what happens, don't kill it. We need to study some of the advance cases if we want to end this mess."

The teen lowered his weapon and waved her toward him. "Okay, okay, whatever you say miss. Now how about taking a couple of slow steps towards me, huh? Real slow and quiet now."

She knew from his wide-eyed fear that yes, she was stupid enough to stand too close and maybe, maybe she'd make it if she moved away carefully. Nonetheless, she's never seen one of these infected up close before and her intellectual curiosity was nagging at her. She had an equal chance of surviving by glancing at it and walking away as she did of just walking away. If she's going to get killed now, at least she wanted to die with one more bit of knowledge that she didn't have before.

It, no… he was looking right at her, eyes iridescent yellow pools of light like a cat's. His face was contorted in sorrow, anguish and fear. Yes, he's only scared. A scared sick human that needs a helping hand, and he wouldn't kill her. He knows she saved him, he must know. Such a graceful attack must have taken into account speed, vectors, at the very least basic trigonometry. It requires intelligence and with that can come compassion, yes? "I'm here to help you." She leaned down towards him, the soldiers raising their guns and shouting warnings.

He bared his teeth and rumbled low in his throat. With only a moment of hesitation, she tightened the restraints crisscrossing his chest and immobilizing his hands. He didn't struggle against it, just maintained direct eye contact, the growl sharpening to a whine. "How intricate your thoughts must be."

_Not prey. Trap. Hurt. Everything trap. Wait. Escape. Wait. Attack. Wait. Kill. Wait… Mineminemine._

"Dr. May, have you been listening to a word I said?" Jameson's voice boomed at her. All force no grace.

She snapped out of her reverie. "No, sorry. Mind's full of what just happened. What is it?" She straightened up, full of courage and fire.

"Back away from the mutt. It can still bite, we don't know if you're immune like the rest of us survivors that fought our way here. I'd hate to quarantine you for an extended period of time." He held a muzzle in his hands, an actual leather and steel dog muzzle.

"If he was going to bite me, he would have already done so. Nevertheless, I'll humor you." She made a move to grab it, but Jameson held on to it.

"You've done enough, why don't you go prep the lab for it?" He spoke down to her, as he always has and always will. She considered him simple and shortsighted for it.

"Him, not it. This is an infected _person_ we're going to help heal." Reilley motioned towards her new cause, daring him to contradict her. "The others have already started preparations. I'll accompany our patient if you don't think that's a problem."

This passive-aggressive dance has been practiced over a little more than a month, but it felt like years "Then let me hurry up here so you can get back to your important work." He crossed her path, kicked the downed beast unto its stomach and placed his size 12 boot squarely between its shoulder blades. This was met with renewed growls and shrieks which were summarily ignored. He lifted the hood so when he placed on the muzzle on, it wouldn't slip.

_No! Nononono. Cover gone. Mine. Want. Cover. NOW..._

The sudden bucking and frantic squirming threw him off balance, causing him to land on his ass. "He doesn't like that, does he? There's a distinct possibility that wearing hoods is symptomatic of the particular strain affecting his kind." The hint of scholarly amusement in her voice angered him more than outright laughing ever would.

He stood again and kicked hard, digging his boot into the stray infected's ribs, forcing out a yelp. When it stilled a bit, he slammed one knee down unto its back, ignoring the protests from the high-and-mighty researcher, and grabbed a large tuft of greasy, dirty hair pulling the neck painfully back. As he quickly slid the muzzle on, a life raised with rowdy mastiff training enough, his fingertips grazed along the creature's feverish neck and felt a thundering heartbeat.

Jameson gritted his teeth hard enough to hear the strain of it, barely mitigated fury boiling in his throat. "You should be dead, cold and slow, you monster. A corpse waiting to be buried." He brusquely slammed the head three times against the ground, the ill-fitting muzzle cutting into the skin on the face while at the same time keeping the nose from caving inward. The hunter was still conscious, face bloodied, hunching its shoulders, muscles shuddering violently, breath shallow and irregular, no longer resisting being pinned down. "Good. That put fear into it; like any disobedient dog, it needs a whooping to learn its place."

_Small strongbeast. Angry weak strongbeast. Escape soon. Kill soon. Eat soon. Wait now._

"Thank you for the lesson in discipline, Jameson." Dr. May kept her shaking fists shoved into the pockets of her worn out lab coat, her tongue stilled against the roof of her mouth. When the field officer was this close to losing his temper, it was best not to set him off further. Another reason she intensely disliked the man and the situation she was caught in. "We have a stretcher right here, so if you could help in…"

"No. This thing is filthy. The only proper stretcher at this camp is for decent people, not trash." He stood up, noting satisfactorily that it tried to curl into itself rather than attempting to escape. Reaching down, he clutched the back of the blood-encrusted sweater, coiling it around his fist. In a swift motion, he hefted the body up. At this abrupt change of altitude, the hunter swiftly planted his soles on the ground and pushed out. The momentum lifted both the infected and Jameson's large frame a couple of feet into the air, shocking all present. The sweater ripped, yet held on enough to choke its wearer. As both bodies collided on the way back down, the hunter landed on top of Jameson where it struggled anew.

It didn't last long. "GodDAMN! Get me some rope." Jameson wrapped one beefy arm around the beast's throat, the other reaching for the fraying belt at its waist. He needed to get it completely restrained, even with the ankles tied together, it could kick out strong enough to break bone and that would not be a good end for a shitty day.

"Sir, I…fuck…I tied the legs up. No WAY could it run. I…I didn't think it could jump like that." The electro-proof suited soldier twisted the ropes in his hands, more terrified about messing up rather than the convulsive horror in his superior's arms.

Jameson spoke through gritted teeth and piercing eyes. "I do NOT have time for your excuses. Now get over here and give me the GODDAMN ROPE!" A second later he had what he needed in hand; a quick jab to a kidney giving him a moment's respite to loop the rope around the knot at the ankles, a quick wrap around the neck. A strong pull and the body arched outward, the feet touching the hunter's hips, the neck strained into near dislocation.

Dr. May ran towards him, ineffectually trying to push the officer off her test subject and potential patient. "Jameson, stop it. He can't breathe! You're going to kill him." She scratched at his hands, unable to loosen a single finger from the rope.

"After that little stunt, no. This abomination is going to take a nap." He pulled more tightly, the creature bucking once weakly, then with renewed vigor in a last ditch attempt as it felt life sift out.

Reilly cried out in dismay, tumbling to her knees, prying her fingers feebly between cord and flesh. "Stop crushing his throat! Even if he lives, he might suffer brain damage without oxygen." She gasped loudly in relief when she felt the makeshift noose slacken. The man can listen to reason, there's hope for him yet. She looked up incredulously, ready to commend him on taking a higher road and was met with disgusted contempt.

"You're worried about brain damage?! Look, this is your first encounter with a mutated freak." He leaned forward, resting his weight on one knee, arm poised to jerk back if need be. Jameson softened his voice and spoke in a slow measured tone. If little miss scientist insists in acting like a wide-eyed child, then he'd treat her like one. "I've seen hundreds of these hooded bloodhounds. They're all the same; blood-crazed animals without a single human thought left rattling around their diseased heads."

"Oh, you ignorant man!" She rose to full height and straightened her shoulders, surely shattering whatever illusion he could have that she was some naïve infant. The man was barely more than half her age and he presumed to know more because of some shiny metal on his clothes. "When I perfect the vaccine, I need to verify that cognitive abilities are present, that people remember and know who they are. I can't do that with a vegetable."

Jameson leaned down to tie the rope, lax enough to not strangle the infected yet still effective in hogtieing it. "You want a ticking time-bomb rather than a neutralized one? Then agree to my security measures." As he stood up, he pressed his boot over the hunter's head, pushing it down, the rope tightening.

She threw her hands into the air, mouth open in a loss of words as she turned around to look for an ally. "What you want is too much. We'd be jailed and you'd be the warden." It didn't take four days to gather the tools for a trap; it took four days for radio conflicts, pissing matches, authority disputes, unwilling compromises and stubborn stonewalling. She had the upper hand before, the promise of a cure or the very least a widespread and discriminating neutralizing agent that didn't level cities.

In his element, relying on common sense and combat instinct rather than bureaucracy and bleeding-heart solutions, Jameson felt in control again. "This whole operation has nearly gone FUBAR before it barely started. I will not risk the lives of the hundreds of people here because you can't accept some basic precepts of martial law. I'm ending this now."

"Fine, FINE! I agree to your ridiculous demands." She gave one last glance around, sickened by the lack of free-thinking individuals that would side with her. "There are six of your soldiers here as witnesses. I'll testify to whatever higher-ups that are left that you took extraordinary actions to ensure the safety of the survivors and the success of this experiment. Let him GO!"

He seized the grungy sweater once more, his other hand hefting the lower half by the belt and lifted the infected to bring it inside. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

The young soldier, actually semi-volunteer/conscripted combatant, was the last known survivor of a decent sized town saved by running away to a treetop hideout at the outskirts a day before the infection hit hard. He felt a familiar pinch at his stomach. He had come from an abusive home and the signs kept piling up that this place was headed the same way. Stress and nerves, his ass. Can't be no PTSD when they're still in the shit. His mates may think that they're blowing off steam; suffering from a serious case of unrequited sexual tension, but that ain't it. There's no ha-ha and buddy-buddy between those two ever. Naw, when the time comes he'll follow those dependable instincts and hightail it out of there. He didn't live to be fourteen by sitting down and being a good boy and wait for mommy and daddy to work it out.


	2. A hunter processed

A hunter processed

**Chapter 2**

Winter was slow coming and warm this year. January had only a few flurries of snow, all melted by midday. Normally, this would have meant a drought year, but with so little demand on nature's resources it probably wouldn't matter for the survivors. There was no shortage of food and medicine either. The compound, hundreds of miles from towns, was self-sustaining with a good water filtration system, micro-hydroelectric generators and a hobby-garden in a greenhouse, still close enough for raids and far enough to outrun any followers. Unlicensed and unchecked deer and moose hunting was a favorite pastime for the security guards, before life became a Romero film, on what they deemed a dead-end cozy post babysitting scientists that pissed off their superiors enough to earn a doozy of a commute for a mocha latte.

The natives, as the people who lived there before the infection hit were called, were used to having several tasks. The cook doubled as the groundskeeper and the dentist doubled as the barber. The generalist doctor became a sort of atheist priest-slash-confidant, listening to everyone's worries and dreams as he gave them routine checkups and treated their minor wounds.

The infection hit the compound a week late and probably wouldn't have reached it at all if a small caravan hadn't decided to visit the nearest town for news and supplies after they had been cutoff from the rest of the world. Of the ten that had left, four made it back, two of which had been bitten. If the drive had taken half-an-hour longer then maybe three-fourths of the staff wouldn't have succumb to the bloody nightmare that the cities were enmeshed in.

As luck would have it, the quarantine measures in the labs could detect whatever virulent disease was spreading on the upper levels and mistaking the source of illness as originating from the inner levels sealed them off trapping Dr. Reilly May and a handful of her assistants and colleagues inside. The security protocol required outside access to override the quarantine; the only living above too enraged and mindless to enter a code. After a time, their radio picked up faint transmissions of a military convoy on the move, telling survivors that ECHO was no longer secure and to find them along the highway until they relocated.

All of that happenstance led to this moment, a lone hunter too persistent for his own good, wrenched from a simple life of defying gravity and pursuing fresh meat. A few civilians, more daring than most, waited in the inner courtyard to see the smaller-than-expected and bound creature whose shrieks still ring out in repressed dreams.

"It's just the one? They work in packs, I've seen them!" A tall man, eyes wide in paranoia, hand rubbing his side as he kept twisting his head to the dark forest.

"You soldiers do your job and keep a lookout." A muscular woman, tight cornrows and a tighter grimace lined her face.

"Dr. May, you wring that cure out of it, quickly now. My boy, John, he's locked in his room and waiting for me. I can't let him go hungry much longer. So hurry on now. Oh, he must be skin and bones by now. Sweet little thing, could never say no to a treat…" A stereotypical housekeeper, skin loose from lost weight, a picture tattered at her hands.

Reilly waved and assured she'd get it done, no worries. Jameson walked by, the pleas falling on deaf ears, his cargo squirming at the calls. _Manymanymany prey. Mineminemine. Escape, kill, eat. Mineminemine. Kill smallstrongbeast, kill womantrap, escapefleerun soon._

Walking ahead, Reilly kept glancing back assuring herself that Jameson hadn't reconsidered and snapped the infected's neck. She saw the flash of a gun sight from the nearest tower, the soldiers surrounding Jameson and his catch itching at their triggers. A powder keg, just a wrong move away from starting back at square one. As she reached the lab entrance she paused. "Jameson, the quarantine protocol hasn't been completely turned off, so don't be alarmed and overreact now. That goes for the rest of you."

The officer sighed heavily, tired of her constant unnecessary sermonizing. Of course he would know, they used it on all the new survivors with the pretense of giving them actual medical aid. He had no idea how its air filters and biometric sensors could recognize a disease that seemed to spill out of nightmare hitting nearly everywhere at once. Nonetheless, it did, saving the soldiers from killing the innocently sick with a cold and preventing an outbreak from wreaking havoc amongst the loosely tied group. He has had to deal with deserting soldiers and thieving civilians that thought that an AVC, a crate of ammo and a year's worth of MREs were public property. A big enough fuck-up and it'll fraction, self-preservation overriding social programming.

Three soldiers strode ahead, poised in the corridor and waiting. Reilly stood off to the side by a console, bottom lip worried by straight teeth. As expected a blazon blared, an eerily calm female voice warning of what measures are being taken. The old hands assuring the newcomers that it's a good thing that the system still works. It was all bark and no bite, locking mechanisms and gas decontaminators disabled. The hunter was terrified the most, almost pained by the clanging noise. Once Jameson was down the corridor, through two inner chambers, and far from the entrance Reilly entered the code, its confidentiality so lost as to be taped over the console for any grunt to type in.

As she reached the staging area for the infected's admittance into the world of medical trial and error, she was relieved to see it safely strapped to an examination table, arms and legs spread out x-shaped. The only other researcher there was a pudgy balding man named Benstein whom specialized in virology. He was in a full-hazmat suit, breath fogging his face shield, sweat dripping off his brow unbothered by a heavily gloved hand.

"Oh, come on, Ben. We talked about this already. It's not airborne." She made a move to lift his hood, but he dodged away and grasped her hands in his. Ever since that fateful day that a compound designed to save the world from their experiments saved them instead, he's been obsessed with isolation and decontamination. Spending his days alone in his lab, its security codes his and his alone.

"Ah, ah, ah! Something about the infection _must_ be airborne, it spreads too quickly. I saw no blood, sweat, spit or semen touch those sensors and it went off regardless." He'd done a stint as a professor and kept that educational tone, reproachful and engaging at once. "You may wish to risk your health down the road, Dr. Reilly May, but I plan on living to the fullest without a single capsid ever setting shop in me. Come now, we have work to do."

He took his samples, blood, hair, skin scrapes, under-nail scrapes and a swab at the eyes, at the nose, at the mouth and the ears. "When you get the chance send me samples of urine and fecal matter. We've already know that the gonads in regular infected are atrophied, but re-check on this one. And get him cleaned up, will you? I'll probably have to redo these samples, I've no doubt there's some cross-contamination with whatever died at those claws."

He toddled off, tray in hand which almost tumbled as he jolted in realization. "Oh, how could I forget? You must do a spinal tap. I know, I know. I'm not getting brain matter until all other options have been exhausted, but losing a little cerebrospinal fluid never hurt anyone. Maybe even a tiny biopsy of his liver, if you ever feel generous. It regrows. " He turned away again and gave one last playful jab before heading to his lab. "Have fun playing psychologist or animal behaviorist depending on this guy's disposition. It might take me a bit to break down the components of this virus before you can get to your own work."

After he left, Jameson couldn't help a small twist of his lips. He hardly ever saw Dr. Benstein and most of the camp didn't even know of him. The elderly man was infinitely more agreeable than Dr. May and Jameson appreciated the man's candor which put her in her place. The provisional population may think May as their personal savior, but her work needs a starting point, relying on data she couldn't seek out swiftly enough on her own. It nagged at him that credit wasn't given where it was due, but it would only complicate matters to disclose it. "Let's get this mutt washed up and call one of the real doctors over here."

"We're not doing any invasive surgery until he recovers from all the wounds you've given him." Wearing protective gloves, safety goggles and mask, she picked up a slim set of scissors and leaned over her stray, cutting at the fabric at his chest. His adam's apple bobbed rapidly as she exposed his chest, hyperventilation shaking his frame. She quickly removed her lab coat and laid it over his face, calming the hunter down, yet still it pulled at the restraints. The skin was a sickly light brown covered in old scars and blossoming bruises. She noticed gunshot wounds, completely healed over, some of which held a hard metal fragment encased within. "Advanced healing capabilities, I can't tell with certainty if his ribs have been broken before, but they seem oddly set. I'll have Dr. Stacey give me a definite answer."

"Looks like it was a gangbanger before turning into a zombie." Jameson eyed a simplistic design of intersecting loops tattooed in stark black on the creature's right arm.

Reilly stopped her examinations. "Or a surfer, skater, college student, rock enthusiast or none of the above. I'd thought that you'd be young enough to not be prejudiced against a little ink."

"I'd thought that you'd be old enough to know that there's a correlation between permanent disfigurement and unlawful behavior." One patronizing insult for another barely masked as opinions.

She lightly placed the scissors on the surgical tray and searched along the hunter's hips, her hands finding a dented lump. "Luckily for us, he still has his wallet with him. So let's see what kind of man our patient was, hmm?" A gunshot had ripped through a meaty thigh, the bullet lodged in leathery folds. As she placed the blood encrusted wallet on the tray, she delicately pried it open, the bullet now loose ringing sharply as it contacted other metal. A couple of twenty dollar bills, the remains of what seems like a condom, family pictures too deteriorated to make out and a college id. "He must not have known how to drive. All I can make out is Peter and a couple of numbers of his student id. It's sad really, no last name or birthday. For now, at least."

"Can we get on with this?" Jameson could tell that she was fawning over the mutt. A disgusting enough prospect if she did it out of motherly concern, unthinkable if she had deeper intentions. His bile rose at the mere glimpse of it. She huffed at him, all self-righteous indignation at the plainest suggestion of inefficiency.

She picked up the scissors again and spoke softly before she began cutting. "Don't worry, Peter. I know you don't like being unclothed, but this is all for your own good."

"For God's sake, do you not know what you're dealing with here? It can't understand you." A man is still being treated for injuries caused by this zombie and she wants to coddle him. She was a professional for life, no family to lose, her only friends safe and sound within the confines of this base. She knew so little about the outside world.

"And if you're wrong? If he can understand us and is just compelled by his disease to be vicious? What then? I won't traumatize him more by treating him like an animal." Jameson pigheaded refusal to see past his prejudiced and limited views was straining her patience.

"If that monster knows what we are saying when it has us pinned down and begging for help, then it's a lot worse than I thought it could be." He couldn't help the snarl in his voice, her willful blindness just another reminder of how society could crumble so easily.

"Look at the big picture here. Small-minded revenge will get us nowhere. We have to be above that." There are so many possibilities he wouldn't even deign to consider. Like so many military men, he'd rather shoot first and ask questions later, never stopping to think that a corpse can't answer questions.

"Small-minded? As if your lofty ideals are going to keep the human race alive. Thinking of those things as still human is what has gotten a lot of good people killed." If it hadn't been a direct order from the acting President of the United States, he'd lock her up and neutralize the hunter. They should be amassing their forces and go on the offensive. The dead stay dead and for bad or good most of the cities were mass graves.

"Sir! Doc-doctor! The infected…" There were only three soldiers in the room, two by the door and one by the table. This one leveraged his weapon against the hunter's chest as it thrashed back and forth, the straps at its limbs loosening.

_Womantrap ripping cover. Eat me. Smallstrongbeast close, angry. Eat me. Nonononono. Fight for me. Rip me, kill me, eat me._

"Dammit, look at what you did! Peter, PETER, listen to me. It's going to be okay. Just calm down." She lifted the lab coat and placed a soothing hand over his forehead, leaning forward, willing him to meet her eyes. The renewed terror in his voice and eyes broke her heart.

"You know what has quieted this mutt down. This." Jameson reached over Reilly and pushed her aside, noting the soulless rage brimming in those fiery pits that used to be eyes. He gripped the rumbling neck and squeezed.

"Don't do that! Don't you dare lay another hand on him. As long as I'm in charge of this base…" She pushed him back and brandished the scissors near his face. He was going to damn them all and ruin this godsend.

Jameson caught her at the corner of his eye and quickly snagged the scissors out of her hand, expression tired and disinterested at the needless drama. "You're not in charge here. We are. Joint-fucking-custody. When it comes to scientific mumbo-jumbo, you get your say. All security and military issues go through me. And this hunter right here. Biggest fucking weak-point in our defenses."

"You have your way now, remember? Nobody comes in or out of this lab without an armed escort and must be approved by you." She moved to Peter's side and stroked along his hairline, offering a bit of comfort in a cruel world. "Everybody locked in here, only people with the key are you and an undisclosed person in case something happens to you. Do you recall this at all? All of your little worries have been addressed, Jameson." Reilly glared daggers at him, keen on seeing the man knocked down a peg. "Don't overdo it with this overcompensating macho crap."

The same hand holding the scissors jabbed a decisive finger in her face. "One wrong move, a single preventable bite, a successful pounce and I'll give Dr. Benstein all of the gray matter he could ever want."

"That is perfectly understood, no need to repeat yourself ad naseum." She softened up, knowing she won this match and only had to give him an out to get on with her task. "Now let me get back to processing Peter so we can get him looking decent." She plucked the scissors from his paw of a hand and started cutting at Peter's jeans, his slight trembling barely registering.

These were the some of the leaders of the unknowing masses of survivors. Decisions made in heated tantrums, the ebb and flow of history at the mercy of their whims. And this was _the_ most secure, stabilized and peaceful of camps left on the northern continent. The balance perilously maintained between a woman's fragile hope and a man's crackling passion.


	3. A hunter cleansed

A hunter cleansed

Chapter 3

"At first glance, the casual observer would think that the acutely infected with tendencies toward marked stalking predator behavior were hardly any physically different from the chronic mass infected. However, unlike the other acutely infected such as the muscularly hyper-developed anger-prone infected and the sporulating-slash-tumorous infected with a prehensile tongue, most of the mutations are internal. Hyper-developed eyes mimicking the night vision of nocturnal cats with the sensory range of an owl. Hardened keratin buildup at the fingertips which create durable and sharp pseudo-claws. The muscles in the legs are lean yet overdeveloped, which when contracted for a short amount of time accumulate kinetic energy like a rubber band…wait, that sounds dumb…" Dr. May leaned her head back and pressed her recorder underneath her chin as she thought out loud. "…like a car revving up, like a pogo stick before it…no, no, no."

"How about a frog, since you keep comparing the bastard to animals?" Jameson rubbed at his temples as they stood outside of a corner safety and decontamination shower. The type for when a careless little beaker pusher spilled a metal dissolving acid or a flesh eating germ on himself. "Isn't it a bit early for you to start your own National Geographic article? Dr. Stacey hasn't even done his x-rays so we can know what makes it tick inside."

"He's going to do an MRI and I'm composing a scientific account of our findings. Besides, what would you know about writing? You have to catch those ideas as they flitter around your head." She raised her hand and fluttered it away from her head to symbolize her meaning.

"Like if anything you just said is new. It's just big words for hunter sees in the dark, has claws, jumps high." He was tired of all her presumptuous attitude. If she wanted to be scientific about it she shouldn't be trying to shove similes that mask the true danger and terror these mutts harbor.

"There's obviously no talking to you." What did he know about anything besides killing? It can't all be cold hard facts and measurements. Future generations will need a comparison point beyond shaky video and frantic descriptions. With their work, she was sure that in two generations time this will all be a bad memory.

He gritted his teeth as his face contorted into a pleasant grin. "Amen to that." The less he has to listen to her, the less likely he'll be tempted to beat some sense into her. Everything about her grated at him; standing quietly next to each other was barely tolerable, yet necessity dictates actions in his world.

She recoiled from the insult but felt too good of a mood to go down that road. "Do you think those brackets on the wall will hold? It looks shoddily made." Better to throw him a bone about a security issue, he loves those.

And that promise of sweet silence was nothing more than a stillborn. "What? You want a fresh coat of paint, a little spit and shine? Make it all nice and humanitarian? This is how it is, we're lucky to have welding equipment and people who know how to use it. You can rewrite history after you make it. Till then you're just another hopeful." Rumors floated around of other compounds and labs and damn if he didn't want to be in charge of one of those.

Always so contrary; if she offered to have the hunter put down, he'd jump on her back on that too. "Oh, no need to be melodramatic. I just don't want Peter coming loose and a hail of bullets heading his way."

"Well, speak of the devil." He had to relent on the stretcher. There weren't any large enough carts to haul it here and walking it was out of the question. It still had that grungy lab coat draped over its face and chest. Having that comfort was too good for it; still, it kept it calm and easier to handle.

Reilly smiled at his complacency, permitting the soldiers to move his limbs about and secure them. She wished that it needn't come to this. A soothing shower wouldn't remove the grime accumulated after months, a sponge bath too dangerous for the caretaker. "Don't take off the coat. The water will tumble it down anyway." She nodded at her two assistants, bright college kids on an exclusive internship, to turn on the hoses. Surely they wouldn't hold a grudge and make this needlessly harsh. Jameson's soldiers would probably try to drown poor Peter.

* * *

_Listenlistenlistenwait. No womantrap, no smallstrongbeast, __only prey. Closemine noeat. Wait. In smallspace, door, smallspace, door, smallspace, door, smallspace, door, tunnel, door, bigwidefreespace. Escape, kill, breakdoor, break weakdoor. No hardoor, please, no hardoor. Pleasepleaseplease._

_Wait…almost free? Trap? Small cover, mineminemine, blind. Listen. Prey near. Escape now? Trapescapetrapescapewaitgowaitgo…_

_HARD__WET! DROWNnononono, coverGONEnononono watercoldwaterhard find cover, need cover. COVER! Grabsnatchholdmine…water push, cover far nononono. Trap, farnoreach._

"HAHA HAA, look at the undead motherfucker go. It's gonna rip its arm off just to get to his safety blanket." Young, unblemished, haunted; the man with the hose kept the pressure at max, steering the stream back and forth. Reilly's labcoat, a sodden mess at one corner; the hunter, a jumble of nerves at the other.

A loud clap, the smile evident in his voice. "Looks like you got some real firecrackers on your team, Dr. May. Can't say I don't approve."

_STOP…smallstrongbea__st near, listen, no hide, quiet, no see. No pain, no eat me…cover close, water push close…grab? Trap? Cover mineminemine. NOnonofarnoreach._

Strident and incredulous, voice edging on physical disgust. "Stop toying with him. What has gotten into you two? I expected more than childish torture from you."

_Nonononono, womantrap near. Pain near__. Cover far. Badbadbadbad. Hardwater drown. Nonono pleasepleaseplease._

"We're just having an experiment Dr. May, you know, as we clean him up. Just a little multi-tasking." A portly young woman, her face brightened in cheeriness, tinged in madness.

"You taught us that, remember? Always strive to learn a little bit more no matter what you do. We just wanted to see how desperate it can get to hide its ugly mug."The young man's eyes were rimmed in exhausted shadows, his mouth a quirk of joyful despair.

Blind to everything but the ache in Peter's face, divided between struggling for a pitiful sopping rag and plastering his body against the wall for protection, Reilly's heart hardened. "There is nothing educational about this. It's barbaric. Turn off those hoses and get out of my facility."

_Womantrap angry. Womantrap catch prey, hurt prey, toy prey, take good cover, give bad cover, touch prey, kill prey. Not me, not me. Pleasepleaseplease._

"You don't have the authority to remove anyone from this compound" Jameson stood behind her, arms crossed, voice strong and sure. He had to nip this conniption in the bud.

She whirled at him, a momentary flare of her eyes quickly followed by false composure attempting to settle her face. "They can get the hell out of the labs. This type of behavior is irresponsible and counterproductive. I cannot work with people who can knowingly sabotage…"

Voices collided with each other, the interns' and the doctor's a mess of syllables and emotions. All addressing the room, none listening to the other.

"I got six brothers and sisters, first one to get into college. I took this damn internship to pave the way for them and now they're all dead…" The man's, now more of a boy, face was cracking, tears a silver sheen on his eyes, mouth contorted into a death grin as his mind raced through his loss, a list too long to consider.

"You think you know everything, that you can solve everything. It took decades to find a decent treatment for the freaking common cold and you think you can just whip up some magical cure for an aggressive and mutating disease when…" Voice shrill in hysterical confidence; hands gesticulating accusingly, sarcastically, hopelessly; the youthful face had aged a decade in a second as she reasoned her way into desolation.

"ENOUGH!" The force of it was essentially physical, a shock to their senses, pulling their attention towards the reigning authority in the room; stoic, certain and pissed. Jameson strode between Dr. May and her disillusioned personnel, prepared to impose his will in order to keep this operation running smoothly. "Doctor, sabotage is a nasty word to throw around these days. Don't use it lightly or some interested third parties might kill the accused to ensure the success of this mission."

As he rounded the older woman, he never took his eyes of her, meeting her withering gaze with a calculated one. He stood between the two interns, patted the woman's shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze, his other hand rested on the man's neck reassuringly. "You don't want honest realists working for you? Not a problem. Smith. Wesson. Escort these two to their rooms and help them gather their belongings. Congratulations, you are now under the wing of the United States Army as scientific consultants."

The interns left, their mood still somber yet lightened; the lapse in decorum forgiven, another place to rest their weary souls assured and welcomed. Only one soldier remained behind, rifle at the ready as he watched the captive infected who had managed to snag the threadbare lab coat and had draped it over his head, a small tear through which a rolling eye peered at the scene across the room.

"Usurping my authority in front of my staff. Encouraging insubordination and recklessness. Anything else you'd like to check off your list today?" A trembling hand smoothed her hair, mussing it up. It was becoming hard to remain civilized while everyone around her conspired to give up higher ideals and morals for the basest of human emotions. "If not, then you must allow me to bend some rules myself."

"What do you mean by that?" He had an idea what she meant. Had it ever since she cooed at the monster and promised to make things all better. Dr. May had to say it though, just say the wrong thing and he'll lock her up. Section 8, over and out.

She reached for the valves on the wall and turned the trickling hoses off. She couldn't help but wonder about the point of using two in the first place. "Peter is not clean yet and there is no one I trust to do so humanely besides myself. I refuse to use a hose, especially now that he's been traumatized with it." A slip of reason, she had two interns, so she thought a hose each would half the time it took, make it less upsetting for Peter. That made no sense in hindsight.

She was still logical, well-reasoned. He would have to goad her, just a little pressure to make the already present cracks more prominent. "You're going to draw a hot bath, put some rose petals in it?"

She bit her tongue, for a second it sounded like a good idea. The hot bath, not the rose petals. That's not right. Peter is a human being; however, he's also infected. Treat him like a patient. "How juvenile of you. No, I'm going to bathe him as we should have from the start."

* * *

Donning protective gear, Reilly had reached for a bathroom tote kept near the decontamination shower; although it offered no privacy from fellow scientists, it was a better solution than the ones used communally by the refugees. The basket held a mix-up of shampoos, conditioners and body washes, some emptier than others. She kneeled on the wet floor, saddened at the sight before her.

A hand shot from behind, sudden enough to startle, heavy on her shoulder as it stilled her. "I need to verify his manacles before you give the mutt a rubdown. Shorten the chains to shorten his reach. Be a shame to lose a dedicated scientist." His voice was sly, smooth; full of the kind of profound hatred nobody would ever want directed at them.

Reilly remained in place, mutely watching as Jameson directed the remaining soldier to pull the chain on the left through the wall bracket as the officer pulled it on the right. Before, it was lax enough so that Peter could move his arms up and down, could reach around himself, but they pulled taut before he could reach his face or body, before he could scratch at the restraints on himself. The chain was coiled around a metal support; two links secured by a heavy lock that kept it tight on both sides. Peter's legs had been immobile the entire time, a thin loop of nylon rope crisscrossed his legs and lower back expertly knotted; biting into the skin, thigh and calf squeezed together. Inhumane, but it was either this or slicing his heel tendons, never to walk again.

Done with his task, Jameson looked down on the hunter. It was hyperventilating again, arms tensing, legs tightening against the ropes. Luckily, only the bastard's legs are incredibly strong, so it wasn't hard to secure the mutt. He reached down and tugged its single comfort away. A sharp growl and snapping teeth, eyes thin slits in a still filthy face, the muzzle making it all moot. "A last desperate stand, huh zombie?"

"Don't tease him, Jameson." Reilly leaned forward and placed her gloved hand on the side of his face, surprising him into a yelp. She chuckled softly. "I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't think you wouldn't notice me here. Jameson does get all of the attention, doesn't he?" She smoothed out his features, noting the metal that had dug into the skin over his nose earlier was now being enveloped by flesh as the wound healed. "We can't keep muzzle on; not this tightly."

Jameson reached for a chair and sat to watch, the lab coat soaking at his feet on the wet ground. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Stop babying the goddamn thing and get on with it."

She grabbed a shampoo bottle that promised shiny hair in jasmine scents and squirted a dollop onto her hand, as she lathered at his hair, she hummed a silly tune that her mother had taught her, that many children learn and play, never knowing its history and origin.

The soldier in the corner swallowed, coughed and swallowed again. All but forgotten by the officer and the scientist. Ring around the fucking Rosy. Seriously? The soldier kept glancing at the door, willing anyone else to come in. He thought he was going crazy, this was crazy, everybody's crazy. A fucking modest infected hunter that hates wearing just his birthday suit, a commanding officer that keeps talking about rose petal baths and rubdowns for fuck's sake, and a lead scientist that's treating this like giving the family dog a bath. Ring around the fucking rosy, pocket full of posies, ashes motherfucking ashes, we all fall down, asshole. Endgame, man. Game over. Goddamn, why did he have to look up creepy children's rhymes and songs? They keep popping up, just like now. Oh, come on! It's a ten second song, how long is she gonna hum it!?


	4. A hunter paralyzed

A hunter paralyzed

**Chapter 4**

The operation room-slash-doctor's office was a hodgepodge of mismatched medical equipment, biohazard trash bags adorning every corner. Cots pilfered from medical supplies stores stuck in a corner; oxygen machines from an old folk's home; a stack of first aid kits, even some meant for pets that came from a vet's office. Automated external defibrillators taken from ambulances, portable dialysis machines from a medical salesman's home, even an ultrasound machine dragged in by a hopeful scavenger whose wife was in her first trimester.

Against the far wall of the room, there were five large totes stacked on top of each other, each labeled 'Over the Counter', 'Vitamins', 'Antibiotics/Antiviral', 'Doctor's orders ONLY' and 'Look it up'. Each held a toss up of bottles and salves, chucked in by Dr. Stacey as he sorted the heavy bags brought to him by the trusted soldiers allowed by Jameson to raid pharmacies. 'Look it up' and 'Doctor's orders' were under heavy lock and key.

The doctor was a tall man and fit, his fading tan still prominent against his brightly white labcoat. He had insisted on getting plenty of medical uniforms, scrubs and labcoats, fresh and new, just for him. Good for moral, better for patients not to see accumulating stains of blood and bile. Truthfully, it was a selfish endeavor. Back at his practice in LA he always kept everything immaculate.

Glossy floors shined in the operating room and hallway enough to be a slip hazard. Plush carpet in the reception area as modern art adorned the walls, ever changing with the latest trend, a wide wall to wall mirror his best patients always appreciated. Not cramped and stuffy, the smell of medicines coalescing into a pungent odor his body absorbed into itself, machinery with too many cables and tubes creeping their bionic tentacles out, one trip away from mashing his head into irreplaceable lifesaving gizmos.

Yes, he felt bitter about it, but at least he was alive and safer than most of humanity. A medical conference had unquestionably saved his life, one in the mountains with a promise of hiking and breathtaking views. LA became a bloodbath pretty quick; close quarters, too many people, too many gangs and guns and plastic filled people with no idea how to solve a problem without throwing money at it, god bless them.

Not that the doctors at the ritzy hotel lived that long anyway. Most hurried to nearby hospitals to help, heading towards the hungry maw where most of the zombies would emerge. Becoming one themselves, dying at their hands when their patients feverish minds switched off the human factor. All fury and noise, the moans and gibbering screams howling long and far in the fetid air.

The memory forced his mind into a dark place. Taking note of his corporeal identity in a small stand mirror on his desk, he grounded himself into the here and now. The right side of his face displayed high cheekbones and a strong chin, nose sharply angular. The eye was red rimmed and slightly sunken from exhaustion, his bleached hair showed dark brown roots. Back then he was healthy and rested, attractive in that fake way that puts people off, but he loved it anyway. He hadn't headed to assist right away with the rest of his peers. He was a plastic surgeon after all. Gastric bypass and tummy tucking his specialty. Nonetheless, he had a hand in every other little procedure and was good at all of it. Even did some pro bono, reconstructing the faces of domestic violence victims. Good for business, that. Good practice, too.

Irony is a cold hearted bitch when she feels like it. The left side of his face was a puckered mess; jagged scars gouged his upper cheek, the lower part a crosshatch of raw stitches as his remaining flesh was pulled taut to seal his mouth away. Under his clothes, he had bite marks and missing skin, the mottled bruises a mere echo of their once throbbing selves. His self-preservation had relented and he had gone to help a small clinic at the hotel, cries for help ringing in his ears as dozens of people poured in from surrounding towns. Tales of unbelievable horror spewing from them as their hurt loved ones became monsters in front of their unseeing eyes.

No one doubted that Dr. Stacey was immune, no siree.

His fingers, long and nimble, were whole and manicured. His last vanity, the last thing he held near and dear, that kept him sane. He had actually asked every possible candidate that came into his care if they had any nail care experience and found himself an old, yet spry, grandma to care for them every couple of days. Her small surviving family ate considerably better than the rest of the refugees.

Medical text books surrounded him, emergency procedures and intensive surgeries, everything he didn't have to worry about since medical school and internship. He wasn't a stupid or inept man; plastic surgery is about sculpting the human body and making it look natural, a steady hand to keep scarring to a minimum. Something incredibly difficult to pull off with a different person each time; many body types striving to be one. It was about achieving perfection, not the harsh and hurried business of saving lives.

Now he had to relearn how to pinch severed arteries and kludge together organs, tedious tasks like monitoring dialysis and heart rates and blood pressure and things he would kill to have a nurse do. This is why he took some time for a makeshift class, smoking out the people with the aptitude for the job. So far, the best he could get out of them was a paramedic-wannabe; good enough to stabilize the patient and let him handle it.

The heavy tome before him detailed how to perform a lumbar puncture, the contraindications and the risks. A lot of yadda yadda since he was going to do it anyway. Benstein wanted some samples and there were plenty more Jumping Jacks to catch if this one died from an infection or spinal damage. He had fought long and hard to beat down his neatness a.k.a. work ethic a.k.a. OCD, settling for passable surgery that fixed boo-boos in a hurry. People got injured in bulk nowadays, specially those crazy mo-fos calling themselves recoverers or raiders or whatever, dying while waiting on him to finish up their buddy. Too many molotovs, bullets and special infected breaking bones and bursting organs.

Nobody wants to be beautiful anymore, just alive. Breaks his heart, it does.

He twiddled the small bottles of iodine and pancuronium between his agile fingers; the first a simple disinfectant, the second a fast acting neuromuscular blocking agent. A paralytic agent that doesn't alter the level of consciousness, that doesn't numb the pain away. Just keeps the subject still so his needle doesn't rip the inside of its spinal cord since he couldn't very well ask it to take a deep breath and hold on. It should be used with an analgesic, the procedure is painful after all, but those rations are too dear to waste on something that is chemically resistant.

He would inject twice the recommended dosage first; see if that's enough to paralyze its muscles. Hope that its heart and lungs won't succumb to it. He wasn't an anesthesiologist, so educated guess work was as close as it was going to get. He should be able to maintain that paralysis indefinitely as long as he injected it at least every half hour to be safe, give the dentist time to do her job. Something Dr. May deemed necessary and humanizing.

At least he had that, eh? Not having to deal with rotting teeth and halitosis. No, Gwen the dentist can be the necessary evil of the camp. He's happy with the title of life-saver, thank you very much.

----

_Quiet. Still. Wait. Waitwaitwait. No cover. No escape. No kill. No prey. Only trap. Only pain. Want free, the high, the dark, th__e hunting grounds, want brothers and mobpack, want runjumppounce. Womantrap, smallstrongbeast, too strong. Want old cover, shredded. Want new cover, taken. Want any cover. Pleasepleaseplease. Free._

Still shackled and bound, Peter was mostly clean now, his skin a light brown with a tinge of sickly yellow, hair thick, wavy and long in the front. The bruised body evidenced its recent ordeal, a purple boot print at his back and ribs, his brow swollen and red, angry red belts crisscrossed his legs, the nylon rope still tightly wound as Dr. Stacey stipulated that it was best to get him into a fetal position to keep his back aligned, the knobs of his spine protruding. So the rope remained to be readjusted later so that his knees would meet his chest.

Since Reilly had washed and dried him up, Peter was deathly quiet. So still and limp, his body seemed lifeless, eyes closed and mouth lax. The slight rise of his chest, as he shallowly breathed, the only visible sign of life. Originally she thought that he was asleep, but the soldier guarding him said Peter opened his eyes and looked around when she or Jameson wasn't near. "Maybe he can't rest unless I'm around. Too scared to let his guard down. This is a rather unsettling experience."

A roll of his eyes, a dismissive scoff, Jameson leaned in close to the hunter's suspended body. "He's playing possum. Not many of the mutts do it, but I've seen it. Lay low with nowhere to hide when guns are a-plenty and the survivors are too well organized. Waiting for the group to move on and catch the stragglers." Exhausted from a long night, never wanting to leave the infected alone too long till it was secured in a cage; he lazily rattled the muzzle back and forth once. Its neck thrummed lowly, tendons and muscles standing out of its neck as the adam's apple bobbed. "This little bastard wants to escape us, Dr. May. Must be your bed manner."

Her face momentarily creased as a small sneer sneaked past her composure, appalled but too weary to put up a fight. They have never spent this much time in each other's lovely company and it really is a test of endurance to remain defensive and quarrelsome for hours on end. Jameson didn't trust her not to loosen the restraints in a moment of sympathetic weakness; Reilly didn't trust him not to throttle poor Peter in a flash of paranoid idiocy. It was getting old.

The tension was relieved as a rhythmic clackety-clack rolled into the room, a small pushcart followed by a cheerful doctor; eyes alight even through a rim of dark, lower half of his face covered by a surgical mask. "Where's my patient, huh? This him? Heck of a catch, Sir. Saw the video of you wrangling him. Blew my mind how you pulled that off. Doctor Reilly, look at you! Standing next to a rabid infected and not batting an eye as you tied him up. Didn't know you had it in you, crazy girl." Friendly, disarming, voice muffled by the mask and slurred by his wounds. He was obviously high.

Jameson took note of the man's hands, stable and sure, a good sign that he wasn't too far gone. Stacey was perpetually under the influence of some prescription drug, mostly Oxycontin and Valium. He was upfront with the leadership here about it. It was an addiction that preceded the zombie apocalypse and if they wanted him functional, he couldn't very well deal with withdrawal on top of all the pain that racks him from bad infections and messy patchwork to close his injuries. Doctors with MDs were a hard commodity to find as most died in that first wave. As long as Stacey was discreet and didn't deal any drugs to anyone, and he meant _anyone_, he'd let it slide. He kept his flock clean, destroying any useless drug catches he found, keeping alcohol and cigarettes to a minimum, any severe addicts to go cold turkey under 24 hour watch. He didn't keep people in line through fear; he did it with stern discipline, the force of his personality assuaging people's distrust of authority. Toe the line he dictates and they'll be safe under his wing. Rock the boat and he'll personally change their mind.

Reilly glanced at the cart and saw only vials for samples, disinfectants, gauze, and a long packet with the words Spinal Needle bolded on the upper left corner, underneath an illustration of the tip, sharp and wide. "Where's the portable MRI that the scavengers managed to get from that medical university?" A curiosity, an advancement in technology, medical marvels to go.

Pristine latex gloves wrapped his hands which filled up a syringe with a clear oily liquid as he then deftly found a thumping vein in the hunter's arm. "Sad to say that contraption is still in its developmental years. It's not strong enough to get a good scan, too much distortion." He tapped the hypodermic once, squeezing slightly as a squirt of liquid jetted into the air. He swabbed the area with alcohol; a quick squeeze emptied the syringe into its blood, sleekly pulling it out of the vein, not a drop of blood spilled. "I've tried it out on my foot. Took forever and I was as pleasantly still as can be. Still looked like rubbish. Could need calibration, but it's too new to find in any of the books I have and I definitely don't have a clue how to mess around without breaking the thing." He placed the syringe in a red biohazard bag to be incinerated once they were done. A dime a dozen, no need to save up on them. Probably more syringes in the world than people right now. "You want an accurate result, you need a big one, and I'm not going to go anywhere near a hospital. Scratch that out of your report."

A stethoscope now dangled from his ears as he warmed the pad against his wrist, his spirited heartbeat thumping loud and clear. Stacey placed it on the hunter's chest, listening as its lungs inhaled furiously, its heart a frantic beating drum. "Ok, good news. Shot didn't kill the guy, tough little trooper that he is. Bad news, we need to do a little test, make sure he can't move even a toe." Stacey straightened up, patted his thighs and nodded at Jameson.

A turn of a key loosened the chain on the right hand side. The arm, now free, slumped to the floor, the body angling lopsidedly. The hunter's breathing sped, a guttural moan slipping past its lips, jaw open and lax. "I say that works pretty well. Help me get him on the stretcher." The improvised manacles were unlocked; red welts a tight band around Peter's wrists. Before the powerless man's face smashed against the tiled floor, Stacey placed a stabilizing hand on a lean shoulder as Jameson hooked his arms underneath the hunter's armpits to haul it up.

_What? Nononono, move, attack, jump, run, slash, moveattackjumprunSLASH... MOVE... __No. Dead, killed me, dead. _

----

The moan had never ceased; melancholic, desperate. At times, a sharp breath would try to fill Peter's lungs only to hobble out slowly. "Bet when he does that, he's going for that screech. Trying to scare us off, huh? Not gonna work, buddy. Need a fully working diaphragm for that." From the stretcher they made a quick trip to a long table in an adjacent room. There were two stainless steel sinks with a long-necked faucet each, two sets of valves for gas and air, two small electrical outlet towers next to those. An everyday laboratory table, now the stage for a medical first; the controlled removal of cerebrospinal fluid filled with a mind and body altering virus.

"A bit cramped, but what isn't these days?" Silence met the doctor's remark. He glanced behind himself, took note of Jameson's sour look, Reilly's worried inquisitiveness, the soldier with the big gun freaking out by his lonesome; all tired and too wired to loosen up a little. "Ok, so I guess these Chatty Cathys aren't here for a conversation, huh buddy?"

The restraints by the hunter's legs slackened, blood rushing to its extremities as a growl rumbled faintly. "What's this? Getting to use some vocal cords there? Not even ten minutes in, drugs already wearing off." He maneuvered the naked limbs around, muscles shuddering softly as neurons flashed incomplete messages to each other, and retied the rope.

A spark of consideration crossed Jameson's eyes. "It put the mutt down long enough to restrain it if need be." A dark red-brown swirl of iodine circled the hunter's lower back, Stacey's light fingers counting down the vertebrae from the neck down to find the right niche to pierce through. Every touch an electric jolt to the immobilized hunter, fearful adrenaline pumping throughout its being, stirring muscles into urgently desired action.

Spot found, Stacey plucked the spinal needle from the tray and aligned it, a quick unwavering jab punched through flesh and cartilage. "Yep, but I doubled the maximum allowable dose for his size and we don't have barrels of the stuff just sitting around." A white spike of pain ricocheted inside the infected man, muscles tensing against the ropes as an inhuman bawl croaked from its throat.

Dr. May paced towards Peter's head and smoothed his hair back. Slight trembles coursed up her hand. "It would be better to save it for occasions like these. Delicate times. Besides, he's not going to escape. I already assured you of that." A curved tap was placed at the end of the needle as drops of a viscous liquid seeped out into a glass vial.

Stacey filled another syringe with the paralyzer, tapped the crux of the arm for another vein and halted, laying the full hypodermic onto the tray on the cart, unseen by everyone else except the apprehensive soldier, breath held and eyes wide.

A beat of silence crossed the room, tension like a morning tide leaving behind oddities of thoughts. Ugly things from the depths. It passed. "I can't say I'm surprised that you disagreed with me." A quick dismissal. "Doc, keep some handy." A standing order. "Lee, after this take a sit down with the doctor to learn how to use it, you're now head dog catcher." An unwavering ultimatum.

Lee, who spent hours looking up scary things online for the thrill, read about hauntings and exorcisms for fun. Who marathoned his way through classic zombie movies every Halloween with friends, all joking about how they'd survive. This Lee right here wanted border patrol and crowd control duties, even shit clean up. Not this, not with these people and their crazy, not with a zombie who might infect him. Oh, yes. Lee wanted a big gun and bullet proof body armor, so he lied and claimed that a bite mark he gave himself was from infected stereotype #3. Blood drained from his face as his words stumbled out. "But sir…"

Jameson smiled wide, understanding and petrifying at once. Like that of a loving father that beats his kids when drunk. "No excuses. You haven't taken your eye or aim off it since the clearing. I can see that you know what's at stake here. You just need to realize that ASAP, understood soldier?"

"Yes, sir!" Too late to come clean, really. In too deep, seen too much. Seen way too much. Being a disappointment was a likelier death sentence than guarding a convoy to save people at a city.

At around fifteen minutes from the initial injection, Stacey administered the second shot. The first vial containing the spinal fluid was half full. It was going to take a while to fill up three, so he adjusted the tap to pour more quickly. The sudden depressurizing of fluids around the cranial membranes was going to give Peter a hell of a migraine till the body replenished itself, but he wouldn't hear any complaints, so what the hell?

----

The short body was splayed on the X-shaped table, strapped in as a precaution. Stacey wondered why a scientific outpost in the middle of nowhere had such a table, but who was he to ask those questions. Too big for a rhesus monkey, that's for sure. Maybe they experimented with orangutans or gorillas, or this CEDA subsidiary had a hand in illegal human experimentation and that's why they're better prepared at dealing with a zombie virus, who knew? Who cared? Not him. Now let's be a dear and pop our pills.

Gwen the dentist sat the ready, all of her tools by her side. Hair in a net, surgical mask and face shield concealing her terrified face. Thick latex gloves rubbing against her rubber apron, worried fingers that didn't want to go anywhere near the bloody mess with human bits stuck inside.

Lee, the lucky soldier, was standing by the door. Wired, awake and about to collapse, he looked like he wanted to be here as much as Gwen did. Dr. May and Jameson had left to their quarters. Doctor's orders, tomorrow was going to be a big day. Announcements to make to the camp and over the radio, reports to be filed and catalogued. High command wanted an info packet sent to them by the end of the week; a 700 mile trip, passing three survivor camps to a secure undisclosed location. A lot of coordination and resources to plan, human error to take into account.

The hunter was heavily sedated and paralyzed for this part, for Gwen's waning comfort. A sheet placed across his midsection, his nudity embarrassed her to frantic tears. "I already cut off the muzzle from his skin, there's a mouth retractor so no chomping down, ok? Waiting is going to make it worse"

Her hands reached up and placed a suction hose on the side of Peter's mouth, a water spout jetted shortly against a bloody tongue. A splash of red dribbled off her face shield, her eyes crossed as she followed it down. "Why can't we just leave it be?"

A beep-beep rang loudly from a metal detector wand as Stacey passed it over the hunter's arm. A swab of alcohol drenched cotton wiped at the bump. "Carrion breath? Humanization? It's disgusting to look at?" He swiftly split the skin with a scalpel and dug out a bullet with slim forceps.

The sharp needle end of her dental probe scrapped a hunk of stringy meat between the front incisors. Bile teetered at the edge of her throat as it was sucked down the tube. "But…"

Stacey waved his hand around and returned to delicately stitching the wound. "Get the ball rolling and your training will take over." Another swab of disinfectant, another wave of the wand; done more as a pastime as he waited for her to finish her chore.

She pushed her chair back, arms outstretched, voice incredulous and high. "What training? I'm a dental hygienist student, first year. I can barely handle cavities and now." The suction hose stuck to the hunter's tongue, the sound a sickening slurp. "I think I'm going to throw up."

The armed soldier walked around the table, eyeing up the hunter, placing the muzzle of his gun at the strapped head. "Just blast it with water or something. Make it look like you did something for Dr. May so she won't bitch about it." A quick poke and a step back, the stench emanating from the open mouth had hit him like a wave.

"No. Cut corners now and you'll cut corners later. Have some pride in your work. Here, tell me what to do." Stacey snatched the dental probe from her hand and scrapped sideways against the gumline, a fresh trickle of blood streamed down mingling with the old.

She watched him for a couple of minutes, wincing inside as he ineptly made a mess of gums, going in dry and forgetting to suck up debris. "You're doing it all wrong. Give me." She held the water spout and probe in a single hand, positioned a circular mirror inside the mouth and in speedy downward strokes removed layers of muck from behind the teeth and in between. Nausea forgotten, purpose remembered, she focused at the task at hand and ignored the little voice screaming that it was going to bite her fingers off.

Stacey smiled and nodded, pleased with himself. The metal detector beep-beeped again down the length of the lax body finding more fragments to extract. A shadow loomed from behind; he shared a look with Lee and shrugged when the soldier shook his head and doped the hunter up some more. Enough chemicals had been pumped into Peter during the last hour to kill a large horse.

Hopefully, Jumping Jack will wake up from this. Hate to go through all the clean up again.

---

A/N:

This is the last chapter of **A hunter [past-tense verb]**, since now we're moving up in pace and plot, skipping days and weeks as the experimentation progresses. The chapter titles will represent the passage of time, i.e. **Day One: Accommodation, Day Five: Reeducation **etc.

The cast of main characters have been introduced, their interactions with each other established to evolve from here on out. Is there anyone you've liked, whom you agree or identify with? Anyone you dislike?

What's your favorite part? What bored you? I'd like some feedback to see what works. The storyline is pre-established. How I write it is not.

I know that slow-paced build up isn't everybody's cup of tea, so I thank those that have reviewed and favorited this story. It's pretty different from anything else I've written and I'm glad to know people like it.


	5. Day One: Accomodation

Day One: Accommodation

**Chapter 5**

A stark circular room, with a diameter of about fifteen feet, the paint on its wall fresh enough to still carry a plastic scent. High reinforced one-way mirrors that ran across the span at the top twenty feet from the bottom. A steel-kevlar composite mesh wrapped in front of it, anchored inside the wall above and below the glass, thin enough that it didn't impede sight. Several cameras with microphones lined across the wall at key angles, hidden from view yet catching everything, its video relays broadcasting at the observation room above and at Parker's station near ground level.

Dr. Stacey's suspicions of CEDA were becoming harder to ignore if they just had this built before doomsday, just because. "Nice set up. Looks pretty new."

Reilly smiled at their good fortune. "Yes, it is. The construction was a bit of a mess. Nobody could really do any precision work with all of the drilling and shaking." She toggled some switches familiarizing herself with how the system worked. Happy, yet evasive.

"So this came in with that other stuff, the tables and restraints. Even an electric-proof suit?" This base wasn't the first one to think up studying the infected for the cure. It was simply the only one really prepared for it. "Why did your bosses decide to splurge on, well…all this?" He spread his arms wide at the myriad of computer screens and out towards the empty labs with scientific equipment worth in the hundreds of thousands.

She leaned up and shrugged noncommittally. "Don't know. Might be a bureaucratic thing. Messing around with the budget to get a bigger government payoff during the next fiscal year." She walked up to him and beamed brightly, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Perhaps like the Highway Commission fixing roads that don't need it. Budgets need to be justified."

He leaned down to her level and spoke at the same tone. "And they justified this how? What was it supposed to be for?" A well of anxiety was blossoming in Stacey, his drug-fogged mind slipping from out of its haze. He was never really a paranoid man, but he grew up watching X-files and other shows that painted scientists in a less than pretty light. "I mean, before this was more of disease control place, everything under a microscope."

A quick chuckle, her eyebrows quirked in wonder. "Yes, it was. I never did get the memo, being that I was more of a worker bee for the big bosses. I guess they planned to combine this place with a facility that dealt with animal experimentation." She switched off the screens and wrapped her arms around the doctor's left one, pulling him out of the room. "The outbreak put a damper on that plan since no one showed up. Better for us, if there were animals to take care of, we'd be out of food in no time."

Incredulous laughter bellowed out of him. "Better? Did you…Seriously?" He reached into his pocket and popped a white oval pill out of a packet and crunched it between his teeth, the acrid taste numbing his tongue and ruined cheek. "You are a doll, did you know that, Dr. May?" He patted her hand in a friendly manner and squeezed her arms between his upper arm and chest, his mind reeling at the implications and deciding to just go with it.

Stacey was always such a flatterer. She enjoyed being around people that understood the benefits of staying positive. "Do you think Peter will be comfortable on that cold floor? We can scrounge up a blanket, don't you think?" Her patient was getting a little photo session as a 'Before' picture and to track any physical changes. She had heard that the sudden bright lights focused Peter's eyes into pinpricks which left him wailing. Light sensitivity would add to the 'hood usage' as a symptom.

Choked amusement poured from Stacey as bits of the pill scrapped his dry throat. "Doctor, if you don't stop, I might just kill myself." He meant it too, but the problem with having a sunny personality is that nobody took you seriously when they should. "How about a pillow, too? He can have mine. Everyone knows I barely have time to use it."

Her quick acceptance and gratitude was a good reminder that sarcasm wasn't a universal tongue.

----

Parker sat at his desk, watching as the two doctors left the observation room, arm in arm. A push of his remote control switched the screen to an outside perimeter as the littlest soldier, young foul-mouthed and runaway-prone Mike, checked his not-quite-so-hidden stash of bullets, water and food. Jameson let him keep it since it seemed to calm the kid down to have an escape plan. Another click and Dogcatcher Lee was throwing up in the bushes, apparently unhappy with his new position. The next channel was blotted white as Benstein hummed merrily in the background; the virologist had used the camera as a coat hanger. Click, click, mundane scene of camp life, one after another.

He'd found the video feed of the impromptu modeling session, the hunter suspended midair with chains, its legs straightened out with planks. The doc had pointed out that the lack of blood flow would atrophy the lower extremities. So instead of keeping it strapped so tightly with knees bent, they could try the opposite approach and prevent poor Peter from bending his legs, thus unable to push out. It fulfilled its purpose of making the hunter look ridiculous. "Nothing good on TV."

Parker eyed his watch, the plastic cover cracked in the middle, yet still functional. He flicked on a radio, the burst of static loud as the amplification antenna he improvised on top of a gun tower transmitted ambient noise as well. A few turn of some dials lessened the effect till he could catch his favorite station, about to interview a zombie killing celebrity. With his feet propped high, he popped open a vienna sausage tin and a warm high octane energy drink.

A loud voice boomed out, instantly recognizable to anyone who has listened to radio during the last half century, a disk jockey. "WELCOME TO THE COMMUNICATION NATION! This here is HoundDog and my partner in crime is Lonely Stu. Say hi, Stu."

A meeker voice belched out. "Hi, I…" and was soon overridden by the DJ.

"And that's enough out of you. Now it is the top of the hour here in Chicago and we have a special guest, the prodigal son himself, Chicago Ted!" Canned fanfare and applause.

A pleasant voice, slightly nasal, spoke out. "Hey HoundDog, love the show, been listening to it while on the road."

"Yeah, that's right. Thanks to our rebroadcasters out there in the Wastelands getting this show out to all you survivors. We are live and alive and on most stations, AWOOOOOoooo." Parker tipped an invisible hat and grinned; he had helped cover most of the northern-east coast

A chortle and clapping rocked back and forth across the airways. "Man, I thought that was a sound effect. You really do howl."

"It's a gift." A wolf whistle inexplicably rang out. "Now we've been getting calls about your exploits across the entire country. Reuniting families, killing hulks single-handedly, giving the sobbing bitch something to really cry about. How do you do it? How do you get around?" Parker could imagine HoundDog leaning forward, head resting on his palms in rapt attention. The man was a cad.

"Human ingenuity and Discovery channel programs. You'd be amazed how many survival tips you'd pick up just watching some guy eat raw fish in the middle of Alaska." It was said with such blatant honesty, that Parker couldn't believe it to be true.

Quickly moving on, can't let it get stale now. "So what's new? What can you tell us about the front lines?"

A deep sigh tempered Ted's words as he got serious. "It's getting nasty down south. I don't know if it's the humidity or what, but there are some new infected freaks down there. And they're vicious. Military isn't taking any chances and is carpet bombing, so if you're headed south I say stop, find a nearby survivor camp and head there. The good ol' boys aren't playing around and if they don't know you they will shoot you, immune or not."

Summarizing in that way that newscasters do, Lonely Stu made a beeline for the important stuff. "I know earlier on the infection hit the north first, so the southern states had more time to prepare and were the place to go. What's safe now?"

Ted laughed in that knowing way, the way people do at life's ironies. "Definitely not down there. There's infected policemen in riot suits, so bullets don't do much, scientists in hazmat suits, so fire don't do much. Even some mud men that spring up on you and can blind you worse than boomer vomit." The voice deepened and spoke in measured tones. "Don't head to regular military, their trigger fingers are itching. Head to a safe zone, especially the ones mentioned on this show. And beware rogues. Lying sons of bitches are giving out bad coordinates to ambush people."

HoundDog interjected, as he used to when self-promoting his one-man shows. "That's right. At fifteen before the hour we list down the safe zones we are in contact with and let you know their conditions before you get there. Real time news, not scrawled posters and walls you have no idea when they were made."

"It's a life saving service, can't believe they tried to shut you down." The zombie genocider recalled what happened about two months ago.

A gruff scoff, insulted by what happened, retold those events. "To any new listeners out there, I'll give a quick recap of that. Some big shots wanted to keep radio silence. Save up the airways for their little broadcasts, for official news. Said we were too loud, would only attract the infected to our listeners' holdouts. I say, screw that. Infected aren't attracted to every noise. Just sudden repetitive ones like car alarms or a gas generator. And that's what headphones are for, anyway." A snippet of a Beastie Boys song snapped on, imploring people to fight for their right…to party.

"It's kept me company and sane, I'll tell you that." Parker nodded in agreement with Ted, though he's been in the company of Jameson's survivor caravan since week two of the infection.

Feeling vindicated, HoundDog went into a tirade. "Damn straight. That's what people want. Co-mmu-ni-ca-tion. There are no phone lines, no internet, no texting. Just CB radios and satellite phones that can't call anybody else. This right here is a hub. We have fifty two people here at the radio tower, and we're pooling our resources and knowledge to stay safe and help you, out there, stay safe too. I remember when we got that radio call in from Oklahoma, Bob Stenton. Told us how to really purify water using a drum, charcoal and sand, seems obvious in hindsight, don't it? And Susie Miller, little girl with her daddy's rifle and radio, found by Bill and Margaret Applehorn as they headed out of Nebraska into Kansas in a beat up truck before it got too cold, both listeners and callers of our show."

Chicago Ted chimed in quickly before HoundDog kept talking. "I'll admit it. I cried when she thanked you for helping her. She's at Theta base, isn't she? Hey, honey, make a call to the show. Last I heard you had a new puppy. What'd you decide to call him?"

The DJ kept going on his rant, instead of following Ted's lead into lighter topics. "Ain't no shame in that. Not that many kids left. We got to keep them safe. There's a cold part of my heart that's thankful that this godawful disease is nearly a hundred percent fatal for the young. It's bad enough shooting your neighbor." A rumbling cough tried to hide his sudenly tear choked voice and failed. "But our true neighbors are no longer the zombies at the door. It's you, our fellow radiophiles and survivors and there are thousands of miles between us. So when that tank showed up -where the hell was that bad boy when we had a big'un pounding at our walls, I don't know- when it showed up and we got our orders to turn off the lights and all of you radioed in and cried out 'NO'…" Silence filled the airways, with a few deep breaths buzzing in the background.

A soft voice lingered barely out of hearing range. "Hey, HoundDog, its okay, I can finish up."

Returning strong and loud, the jokey voice chided the other man. "No, Lonely Stu, don't try stealing my job now. I know you've been eyeing my seat for a while now. Used to think it was just you being lonesome and desperate." Chicago Ted laughed long at Stu's expense as HoundDog finished the story. "When you all called in and that motherboard flashed white and red, I knew we are not alone. Nobody is alone. And some of those calls were of people stuck in their bunkers, waiting for the all clear, or in an attic without a friendly face in sight. This is human connection and we need to keep it alive to keep our souls alive, so when a solution comes up, we'll all know of it together and we'll prepare for it together and we'll survive together. We will rebuild together, every single one of us."

Stu contributed some more to keep the ball rolling. "That tank turned tail and ran when that general guy radioed in. Johnson, was it?"

The Dog was better with names, knew every single caller, especially those that reached out one last time before their doors caved in and death fell upon them. "Jameson, now located on one of those secret bases, computer whiz Parker is at the same one…" Parker felt pumped for the shout out. "…used to be in charge of ECHO before it got overrun. How he managed to secure an open town with cornfields all around him for over a month, I'll never know. Man had a set of lungs on him, could hear him clear as day as he outranked the commanding officer of the tank and told them to back off since they were disrupting his camp worse than any music ever did."

A rustle of papers muffled Stu's words. "He has an announcement to make later, doesn't he?

"Yeah, that's right. We got him scheduled in…" more shuffling papers "…two days from now."

A hand slammed on a table, the voice teasingly gruff. "Hey, I thought that this was an hour meant for interviewing the great Chicago Ted."

"Sorry, oh Great One. So what else do you have for our listeners?" The sounds of an orchestra fine-tuning their instruments ended when a slim baton smacked a hard surface several times. The conductor about to start.

"Ever hear of a little technique called crowning a witch? The foursome at Theta Base thinks that they came up with that and I'm calling bull. Half of their stories don't even make sense. About the only thing I do believe is that they pop whole bottles of pills. Crazy people, saying that first aids are all they needed after getting slammed around."

The radio suddenly cut off, Parker nearly toppling backwards as he noticed Jameson standing behind him. "It's not your downtime yet. Keep to your duties."

Parker slammed his feet down, a startled breath teetering out through his nose. "This is part of it, you know. Keeping up with the latest news, compiling data, gathering survivor statistics. Maria's meditation hour is going to start after this show. How about a little leeway, Sir?" He smiled nervously as he eyed the open door. He hadn't heard it creak like it usually did.

"Postpone that and get all essential personnel to level two. Benstein has his new samples and Dr. May wants to introduce the mutt to the cell. Give it some running space." Deep seated discontent contorted his face into a grimace, he would have rather given the beast a five by five foot cage to wallow in, keep it restrained enough to jab a needle into whenever they needed to pull it out for some tests. Now they'd need to figure how to stop it jumping around. At the very least he was going the get something worthwhile out of it. "I want people there to see how it moves and learn a thing or two about guessing its attacks. You make sure to record and edit it all as I'm sending that video out as a training measure."

Microphone in hand, Parker nodded his assent and typed some commands in to look busy. "You got it, boss." Once Jameson left the room, the door closing with a slight click, he let go of heated breath and gulped once. "Heellllooo, happy campers. If you have Z-clearance, head on over to the second level. I repeat, if you have Z-clearance, head on over to the second level. For everybody else, satellites are reading clear so I have some smooth tunes I jacked out of an Ipod I finally got running. Enjoy the playlist. This baby is on shuffle."

----

Captured over thirty hours ago, the hunter was more physically and emotionally exhausted than it has ever been during its second life. Livedeath kept poking it, a fiery pain that flowed through its veins and took away the little movement it had left. Brighlight blinded it, worse than sunlight, and its need for cover grew into a desperate hunger that made it consider biting its tongue off. Womantrap kept touching. Smallstrongbeast kept hurting. The only prey had a loudstingdeath and kept clicking it in its face, the sting never hitting. Sometimes prey wasn't prey and did things like Livedeath and that scared the hunter. Loudstingdeath was bad, livedeath was worse. There was no runjumppounce, just wait, rest, cringe, rest, wait, pain.

Hunting grounds were simple life, with simple prey and simple enemies. The hunter understood the mobpack and the longtongue and even knew not to slash at the killcrier that sounded like prey but wasn't. Even the stupid brothers that stole its kills were simple to get rid of. The hunter didn't know what to do, how to intimidate, how to escape, nothing made sense. If it got caught then it should have been killed and eaten, even prey follow this rule.

Its body was full of livedeath but not sleepdeath like that time after greatpain when it awoke to a clean mouth, the proof of its skill ripped away as though it was a weakling that couldn't feed. Brothers would laugh, then slash, then kill. The hunter needed to pounce and eat big prey before returning to hunting grounds. They could tell when it was only small on four legs. It would return with bloodsoaked cover and a full stomach and red teeth, and beat a strongbeast and rule a pack of brothers. It will be strong and intimidating, and happy. It will be happy again. It will escape and be happy and strong.

The soldier, actually a trained corporal not a last minute recruit, named Smith hauled the left side of the hunter's lax body into the cell through a featureless pressurized door with no handle on the inside. "Is it me or is Fido crying?"

"Probably just irritation from all the lights." Wesson, his backup and all around best friend, shrugged uncaringly as he carried the right. They've been around each other since basic; pretty sure their combined names amused the higher ups enough to transfer them as a team. "Okay, ready to do this?"

"Hell, no. What do we have left? Five minutes?" They tugged at the restraints till they loosened, unfastening straps and belts. The knots that held the planks behind the hunter's knees were cut to speed things along.

"Less if you keep yapping. Turn him over" Face down, the hunter's face dug into the muzzle, a thin strip of gauze doing nothing to cushion the metal from the ridge of its nose. "Okay, all clear?"

Smith carried all of the restraints bundled up in an arm towards the only way in or out; his free one held a pistol aimed directly at the back of the infected's head. "Got your back."

Suddenly tight, then loose, the muzzle fell free as the hunter's head smacked the coarse floor. "We're good. Open up and let us out." Two quick bangs at the door, the pair fighting every instinct in their bodies to kill the infected monster they were currently trapped with.

It slid open for less than five seconds, leaving Peter alone under bright fluorescent lights behind high-density plexiglass in the ceiling. Beaten, starving and naked, recorded by a dozen cameras as a small crowd watched the scene from above. Against the curved wall were a tattered blanket and a flat pillow; across from that, a plastic jar full of water and a metal plate with a sliver of cooked meat; a quarter of the way along the wall was another metal plate with a similar portion of raw meat; by the door was a ring of keys all useless except to see what the hunter would do with them.

----

Mobility started with tremors that jerked the scarred torso and flickered at the fingers. Not long after, a flailing arm twisted the body backwards landing the hunter face up. Its howl at the painful lights still weak. The legs jerked as spasms propelled Peter across the floor, a sudden lurch standing it up for a moment before it collapsed forward, arms too slow to cushion the fall.

It lay still as rapid breaths burst through its mouth, growls and shrieks almost merry as it methodically placed its limbs in order to crouch. Still unsteady and uncoordinated, it took several tries to reach the blanket which it wrapped around its head and torso several times over, tightly wound and looking like a toga wearing ninja. The next half-hour was spent with Peter rubbing the blanket over its head, securing it, straightening it, and smoothing it out. Like a bird cleaning its feathers.

The hunter shuffled slowly after awhile, snuffling and growling, disregarding the food and drinking the entire jar of water in a single go. It couldn't really see the door as it was nondescript, the same color and texture of the wall. But it could see the reflective glass and it remembered breaking through windows and surprising prey.

There were many hardoors, but not many hardglass. Stupid brothers jumping again and again through hardglass, mashing their faces and breaking their teeth. This hunter was smart and strong and intimidating and it only needed to check once to know if it was hardglass. And it's near brightlights and the cover was badcover that let brighlight shine through, but it was also goodcover that the hunter was never ever going to lose.

Brightlights hurt so much for so long, that the hunter wasn't scared of them anymore. It was prepared and would jump through the glass and kill all the prey and eat and return to hunting grounds and stay there. Alone is not good. The hunter had learned, alone is not good and manymanymany prey is bad.

It took two jumps - one to gain height, the second to gain momentum - to mash against the one way mirror. It took about thirty attempts after that till the hunter's bloody fists settled on the ground, agonized groans seeping out from its chest as it pulled the cover over its head in defeat. From time to time it would run at a wall and scratch at it, gouging chunks of paint off and scrapping at the reinforced cement underneath.

A sudden crazed pounce slammed the pillow beneath the hunter as it ripped at it maniacally, the scent of Livedeath still on it as it wanted to kill the prey that wasn't prey and trapped the hunter. Prey had taken everything and left nothing, not even red teeth. Why, why did prey take red teeth? A feeling Peter could no longer describe coursed through him. Humiliation. It burned worse than the fear and pain, worse than hunger and despair.

It was the first exclusively human emotion Peter had felt in a long time.

----


	6. Day Four: Experimental control

Day Four: Experimental Control

**Chapter 6**

There are several factors that determine which facet of the zombie virus will be most prevalent in an individual.

Ironically, those dubbed 'Smokers' actually were smokers or breathed in large amounts of secondhand smoke at the time of infection; high levels of nicotine promote the growth of a pseudofungi pods on the skin and in the lungs which release a constant cloud of infectious spores. It's interesting to note that they are also the most mild-mannered, with a keener sense of survival than the rest of the special infected. Nonetheless, they are the most dangerous within the confines of a safe zone as one Smoker can infect an entire populace of non-immunes within minutes, as the decimation of Beta base proves when an infected survivor hid in a closet. The spore cloud that spread upon its death lingered in the air for hours and was responsible for the infection of 43 individuals.

Athletes and other physically active people, with high levels of testosterone and other male-focused hormones, developed muscles incessantly, in a similar fashion to cancer. Unlike cancer, which is the uncontrollable growth and replication of damaged cells, it was only the muscle fibers in the upper body which multiplied as bone density quadrupled in the legs to sustain the weight. The chemical imbalance in the brain, as testosterone flooded the synapses, has a similar reaction when compared to 'roid rage' except that it is never-ending. These 'Tanks' while extremely dangerous and hostile, are very predictable and an experienced team can easily kill them as long as the ammo holds out. Unfortunately, experience and ammo are things that fall short for most survivors. Tanks are noninfectious unless blood contact is made, though an encounter with one has a mortality rate of an estimated 87%.

'Witches' come to be by a lack of neurotransmitters, particularly serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine. Low levels of these in a normal human being causes depression; however, there are no known cases of male Witches since high levels of estrogen and progesterone play a part as well. Most Witches were recent sufferers of severe mood altering PMDD, their weakened bodies drastically losing weight as their metabolic rate skyrocketed; calcium hardened all of their bones, especially the skull and metacarpals. The keratinous claws at the hands and feet are razor-sharp and dagger length. They are also cases of women that became infected while in menopause, yet the conditions fluctuate wildly so it is not a strict determining factor, only an exception. Easily avoidable due to the echoing sobs, with a prior mortality rate of 45%. After the introduction of 'crowning the witch' through the Communication Nation radio station, it has jumped to 73%.

Unlike the rest of the special infected, 'Boomers' are not determined by hormones and neurotransmitters. Large amounts of easily dissolvable body fat around the waist, highly acidic stomachs which tend to cause heartburn, and peptic ulcers caused by _Helicobacter pylori_; these factors merge with the virus as bile, pressurizing gas and liquefied fat fill the region which once held the digestive system. The highly odorous spray that expels from the Boomer is slightly acidic and strangely non-infectious, its functions being mostly to incapacitate/blind survivors and mark them as a target for the horde of chronically infected people. Typically harmless when encountered alone, deadly if surrounded by many infected.

Neurochemically speaking, 'Hunters' differ greatly from Tanks. While also athletic, adrenaline is the dominant mood modifier, not testosterone. Daredevils and parkourists, criminals and soldiers, any individual that had several prolonged spikes of adrenaline for an extended period of their lives and as a result pumped more of the neurotransmitter during a time of stress, those were the candidates to become Hunters.

All of this data is unknown, of course. Facts lost to the wind, waiting for an observant eye to make the connection. It makes the search for a cure a moot point if only one individual is studied. Factors governing his illness, do not govern others. And even if a treatment works, it could simply be a fluke; hence repetitive studies need to take place with random samples of the population. Double-blind experiments, placebo effect, control groups. The scientific method has steps, has a protocol, has safeguards and contingency plans; it even has statistical equations to determine if the results are significant or not.

Humanity has time for none of it.

However, if by chance any survivors manage to trap a hunter (No other special infected please, too messy and dangerous to transport) then Dr. May and Army Leader Jameson, will gladly and grudgingly accept the infected to be part of the mission critical experiment currently under development at Outpost Need-to-Know-Only. In gratitude, your name(s) will go down in history and the services of forever busy Dr. Stacey and Gwen will be available for a limited time to treat any sustained injuries. Do not attempt capture unless fully prepared. Do not enter the cities. Do not use self as bait. Do not dress up friend as hunter for more supplies. Seriously, that's messed up.

----

An armored truck barreled down the road, swerving around stuck cars, the bank logo on its side marred in old blood and boomer vomit. Its speed was not due to recklessness or desperation, rather the driver's memory of the crooked path cleared earlier by soldiers tired of taking the long way around to rescue people at the pickup point. Unless a Tank had decided to rearrange cars again, they'd be fine.

Next to the driver sat a skinny man with wiry muscles, baseball cap jutting forward by the window as he chewed the pad of his thumb and cradled an automatic shotgun in his other arm. Dirty overalls, that hadn't been washed that much before the infection hit, clung loosely on his frame; the reek billowing from it went unnoticed as fellow passengers mirrored the same smell. "Hey, man. We gotta get that prize."

The driver was a previously well-groomed man that had fallen on hard times. The split in his hair held flecks of persistent dandruff, tweezed eyebrows had returned unevenly, his once professional and costly suit had frayed edges and a ripped sleeve. Instead of driving limousines, he was going to chauffeur an entirely differently sort of celebrity, the infamous kind. "It's not a prize. It's barely a reward."

"Same thing. Hounddog been goin' on 'bout it since yesterday. Happy as a pig in shit, that guy." The skinny man's voice held a twang that shortened words and spoke quickly, his excitement pronouncing his unabashed roots as a southern boy. "I been wantin' to get me a radio prize since fo'ever. Could never dial in on time or answer those cockamamie questions."

"What is this, Matty? Your childhood dream?" A sharp sucking noise interrupted as the driver pressed his tongue against an aching tooth and inhaled. "I just need to get that dentist chick to fill in my goddamn cavities. I'm in bad shape. I'm not losing my damn teeth." The refinement ended at looks, his upbringing in a middle class family grounded his personality.

"It ain't that bad. I lost my front ones years ago." Matty ahh-ed at him and showed off that he had lost more than just the eyeteeth. Though to be fair, most of the newer losses were due to the butt of a soldier's rifle. "Doin' fine now."

The driver cringed away, dismayed at the possibility of having a similar mouth. "Eh, no thanks."

A fist slammed the metal grate behind their heads as a deep voice with musical intonations demanded silence. "Yo, bitches, shut it before I bust your grills worse." In the back cab stood a somewhat short man; stocky and tough with low riding pants, a dingy wife-beater and a shirt wrapped around the back and top of his head to give his neck protection from the sun. His strength had made him a target for ditch duty and other hard labor that made him wish that the NAACP still existed so he could sue some asses.

A fist slammed back at the grate as the driver mocked the man behind him. "Yo, Jerome, nobody here doubts you're a gangsta, so shut the fuck up yourself."

"Quiet, all of you." A slim brown woman with a british accent chided quietly, her glossy black hair tied in messy braid, her dexterous fingers adorned with a single golden ring glided across the rifle she was cleaning. She looked up and smiled sadly at Jerome and Billy through the metal mesh, the driver was rubbing the back of his head and glancing out the side window. In a playful tone she ordered them around. "Unbelievable, we're a roving band of stereotypes. Brad, eyes on the road; Matt, you're riding shotgun so be ready to use yours; Jerry, watch the back, I don't want any nasty surprises creeping up."

Jerome followed the tumble of the truck as he sat down on a bench and thumbed through the tens of thousands of dollars still present in truck, someone's personal stash of toilet paper. "Hey, Ji. They said to keep out of the cities for a reason. You sure you want to get close to this one?" He said it quietly, for her ears mostly, she had the most to gain and the most to lose if they succeeded or not.

She matched his voice and leaned closer, not to hide the conversation from the others, but to enjoy the simplest bit of privacy that she was barely allowed anymore. At the base, there was safety in numbers, but also danger. "The exterminators already cleared out the nearby suburbs and the small towns left don't have that many infected in them so I doubt we'll find a hunter. Unless you want to drive deeper into zombieland and spend a night outside of base camp then this _is_ the safer option."

Silence quelled the already tense mood as the city loomed ever closer, their resolve to capture their ticket out swaying madly like a plastic bag in a funnel of wind. They've gotten this far and after 'borrowing' the truck had to make good on their gamble. It's sad to say that an infected killer was the lesser evil in their lives.

----

Despite the cool chill still present in the air the large hunter flexed its muscles, arms and legs exposed to the air. It was besieged by the next level of infection that affected its southern brothers, a terrible itch under the skin in the extremities. The hunter could jump farther, hit harder and slash more brutally now that the muscles burned with metabolic energy, cells bursting and being replaced at a rate that demanded more food. Good prey, the tasty kind that fought back, those were getting harder to find. The few huddled in the city had dozens of hunters waiting at their doors, hoping for a tank to bust through or a survivor to try their luck. Too much competition.

Best way to feed and get rid of competition was to eat them. And that's why he changed first out of all the infected of the city. This hunter had gone cannibal, the disease had consumed itself and started the next stage of viral evolution. It no longer thought in words, just emotions and instincts, its brain permanently disfigured and unrecognizable. And that somehow made it deadlier, more intelligent in a cold way without the prejudices and fears of its human life to cloud its actions.

It waited at the edge of the city, high up on a billboard next to the highway; waiting for the truck that passed by less and less often. It never attacked the truck because those that did died, but it was hungry and it planned to follow it this time to see where it was that prey went and find some new hunting grounds. The hunters in the city feared it and ran away, darting through broken windows and crumbling tunnels, past witches and tanks in hopes of stirring unmeant protection. The other special infected it could kill tasted horrible and the mob was thinning out, injuries and famine claiming more by the day.

At a new location it would be stealthier and kill loner hunters so that the others wouldn't figure it out to soon. The hunter would have more to eat and more territory before they learned to run away. It was superior and deserved more, could feel it in the blazing skin that it scratched at red and bloody, could feel it in the empty sockets that once held his eyes.

Regardless, the hunter could 'see' through vibrations and heat, through the enhanced ability of kinesthesia and proprioception that every human has though mutated and expanded, through nerve endings that sense pressure and heat much farther than could ever be thought possible. The occipital lobe that once processed sight now merged all of the stimuli into an orange hazy spotlight, a mental image that mirrored sight. A much better trade-off than the light sensitive eyes that weaklings kept out of habit, leaning on vestigial organs that restrained higher senses as brain power remained tethered to it.

The rumble of heavy wheels coursed up the metal pipe that sustained the billboard, the snarl on the hunter's face could have been a smirk as it lay low on the grating. It could no longer read, but the billboard at its side had large spray painted letters declaring to would-be survivors to stay there, help was coming. Beneath lay a fortified tractor trailer with a red safehouse door dangling on a single twisted hinge, the inside rust colored with dried blood. The truck circled once on the cleared stretched of highway; a miraculous eight lanes free of vehicles, in which a helicopter used to land before a tank nailed it with concrete and rebar.

A low buzz of a radio fine tuning itself filled the dead air, the words meaningless to the hunter. A small part wondered why the truck had come when no prey was hiding in wait; no matter, it would still lead back to its home and the hunter would follow.

Single infected started to sit up and turn towards the noise, curious and not enraged. It wasn't jarring enough to cause them pain and fury. Pistol shots started to ring out, large silence streaming in between each shot. Still, the mob did not rush as it wasn't as provoking as automatic gunfire from an assault rifle. Minutes crept by as the mob lost interest and slowly sat back down in wait for hunger to kill them, weak from the months as infected that ran everywhere and consumed next to nothing.

Laughter rang out from the truck as three preys left its safety, the fourth still at the wheel. The shortest one seemed like the best meal, as the other two were skinny, but they all held weapons and the plan was to follow them, not eat them.

More time passed, shots rang out from time to time, there was some shouting from the prey and an infected rushed at them when the noise was too much, but nothing else. Normally when the truck came by, the area was teeming with life; hunters, smokers and boomers attracted by the survivors towards the overpass on the highway, the mob amassing members as the city followed and fell upon them. Witches scared away, screaming as the lights and sounds drilled into their weary heads.

Otherwise, the constant beating of the sun even on cool days was an annoyance, no water around to drink, no heights to explore, so the only infected that remained on a calm day were those that were too weak to walk back, the nearly dead. And the nearly famished hunter, whose instincts to kill the prey that was wandering around in the open was flaring up. No competition, no need to share or defend; it could just follow the next truck.

----

Matt raised his cap using the barrel of his un-safety-ed gun and scratched at his temple. "Should we go in?" He nodded towards the city, smoke billowing out from a gas station at its edge. Small dots careened between the skyscrapers.

Jignasha walked up to him and groused at the view. "No, better safe than sorry. We head in, they can surround us. And besides, the truck can't get past the gridlock after this point." The adrenaline surge had withered into a sour taste at the back of her mouth. The plan was to attract a small group of zombies, especially hunters that were known to travel long distances to reach survivors. They'd catch it and drive away before the nastier ones showed up like the boomer or smoker. Especially a tank.

The echo of several shots rang in the dry air as shell casings tinkled towards the ground, the desiccated corpse in a car swayed momentarily as a bloated rat scurried out into darker corners. "I got tricked out for what?! Getting these guns weren't easy. Been hours, nothing shown up but these weak-ass fools." Jerome itched to do something, anything. Going back empty-handed would land him a beating at best.

The soft radio chatter edged into silence as Brad leaned his head out and hissed at Jerome. "You weren't the only one to stick your neck out. I got the fucking truck, you have any idea what that took?" He was a heck of a driver and kept a cool head when needed, but the soldiers still treated him like a civvie outside of 'work'. There wasn't much left in the world to bribe the Have's with when he was a Have-not and he was damned if he was ever going to do it again.

A warm hand brushed Ji's shoulder and she met Matt's friendly eyes with her sad ones. No words passed between them as she clutched his hand and enjoyed the bit of comfort of his selfless companionship. Then she heard the guttural growl from above. "Shh."

Angry eyes leveled at her, Brad had the best deal going out of the four of them and he risked it all for her. "Don't shush me, Ji. This whole thing was your plan." Sure, it sucked to drive towards the zombies, but there was always a trained soldier at his side, and he felt a twinge of pride as the survivors thanked them for picking them up. Though, that gratitude never lasted long once at the base.

She implored him, hope and guilt flooding her eyes that begged for understanding. "No, quiet. Listen. It's a hunter." She angled her head slightly upwards at a decent guess of the hunter's location and smiled brokenly.

Matt rounded behind, positioning himself between the hunter and Jignasha, gun steady at his side as he feigned ignorance of the killing intent above them. "Dammit, we ain't nowhere near ready for this shit." His voice tried for normal conversation, but crept up towards the end.

Almost casually, she reached Brad's door and gave him her gun and made herself a better target. "It's still stalking; we have time before it jumps." Her hands wrung themselves as she lost the security of the weapon. She nodded at Jerome and lifted a welcoming hand towards the truck. "Jerry, open the backdoor and hide behind it. Matt, get your gun ready."

Tears had welled in the driver's eyes as he cradled her gun like a keepsake. "This is a stupid plan, you're gonna get yourself killed." He fought and insulted Matt, Jerry and Ji but they were all he had left. A makeshift family that teetered on the edge of destruction on both sides, their only salvation was to have something to attract the attention of another safe zone leader and pick them up.

Heavy shudders started to run through her core as she ambled towards the back of the armored truck. Before turning around the corner, she looked back and smiled bravely, her white teeth gleaming against her dark skin. "I'm not going back to that base without that hunter, Brad. I'd rather die, you know that." She had caught the eye of a man calling himself Supreme Commander and though Matt physically fought, Jerome cussed loud and Brad distracted the soldiers with jokes and stories about the now-dead celebrities, it was getting harder to stay away. The little decency left was crumbling as screams had filled the night and no zombie attack was reported.

Brad shook his head and revved the engine; hating the fact that they couldn't just drive to another safe zone, but infected surrounded them on three sides and the fourth was heavily guarded by soldiers from their base. "You're gonna die if we screw up."

"Matty's a good shot, isn't that right?" The words came out honey-sweet, her fear replaced with a knowing calm that flooded her thoughts. She touched the ring on her hand, the cool metal engraved with her lover's name and a promise to save themselves for each other. The wedding night never came and she vowed to die a virgin. "If it takes my life, then… then you get your teeth fixed and live a long life and remember me, ok?"

The baseball cap was slipped off and held chest level as Matt made his promise once more. "Ain't gonna need to. You'll be alright, ain't letting anybody lay a hand on you, I swear." His life before was simple hard work and afternoons at bars, now he found his calling as a knight, the chivalry in his soul old and innate.

Her head bobbed as a giggle formed on her lips, remembering when Matt literally kicked someone's ass. "I know, Matt. Thank you. For now and before. And Jerry…"

Silent through it all, Jerome cocked his gun and interrupted her before he lost it too. He'd make fun of Brad for being a crybaby and she'd tell him to stop being so mean, and it would be alright. "Stow your goodbyes. We all gonna make it and I'm cashing in on the fame. Hounddog's gonna be interviewing all of us." Something in this fucked up world has to go right and it was time they were paid up. The deepening growl was the last warning before the screech. "Get ready, it's starting to act up."

Ji stood at the back of the truck, angled away from the door, and felt the cool breeze play with her hair, an absent part of her mind thought that they should have moved the money, and oh…it's a big hunter, isn't it?

----

The hunter reared back, perplexed that the prey hadn't started to shoot, run and scream when he growled loud enough to be heard. The disorientation helped with a kill, the other prey still preoccupied with their safety, too confused to notice who got pounced. No matter, the female one was weaponless, the short one was hiding and the only one with a weapon wasn't enough to stop the attack.

It leapt and feltsaw her body heat, heartbeat, mass disrupting air flow, every bit of corporeal information that describe her being rush towards outstretched claws. A strand of hair caressed along a knuckle on the left hand, sending a microsecond jolt of electricity through its enhanced being.

And that was all it managed to snag before buckshot slammed against its side and propelled the diseased body into the truck, the heavy door pushed along as quickly as possible to trap it inside.

----

"Ohshitohshitohshit!" Jerome fumbled at the latches as he felt a heavy blow nearly pushed open the backdoor. It took every strand of muscle in him to hold it closed. Ji pushed his hands away and secured it herself, her face ashen and trembling. She almost laughed before they heard a scream from Brad. "No, no, NO!"

Matt reached him first and held Brad's bloody head out of the window as he nestled the shotgun at his shoulder. The hunter snarled out of the buckshot's range a moment before the trigger was pulled, the thin metal grate between the driver's cab and the back torn and slashed to bits. "Can't believe we didn't think of that."

Ji opened the door as Matt never took his eyes off the hole and propped Brad against her shoulder to pull him out. "Oh, no, no. How did it break?" She cradled his bleeding head on her lap as fresh tears started to spill, her rocking back and forth eerily like that of a witch.

Jerry ran towards the wrecked safehouse and pounded at the door with the heel of his boot, the last twisted hinge snapping free. He hauled it up as his body leaned perilously on one side to balance the weight and rushed back to the truck. With a powerful yell he hefted it through the wide door and wedged it between the seats and back wall, the bottom half completely covering the grate. The hernia he'd given himself would make itself known in a few minutes.

A shaky hand reached for hers and grasped weakly. "Guess those trucks are made to keep things out, not keep things in." Four sharp gashes ran along the back of his scalp... no, through his scalp. She could tell the hard bone from flesh even though it was all covered in blood. His face paled noticeably as the crimson pool grew around them. She kissed his forehead and prayed as she had as a child, the sounds of a lilting lullaby.

A bundled shirt thrust itself between them as Jerome wrapped his own around Brad's head. "It's not that bad, head wounds just bleed a lot. Brad doesn't want to come off as a bitch so he going for tragic hero. Here, keep some pressure on it." Jignasha's hands were pressed as the t-shirt quickly changed colors.

Another explosive bang resounded next to her as Matt reloaded his weapon. "The horde's coming, I think it's the blood and all that screeching from the hunter" He grabbed Ji and tossed her towards the cab, the inside still glistening in fresh blood. Jerry tried to lift Brad when his hernia flared to life and doubled him over in pain. "Dammit, Jerome. Not the time."

Ji ran back out and pulled Brad inside as Matt rained hurt on the crowd climbing over cars, she helped Jerome up and tumbled him in. "Get in, Matty. I'm driving." The roar of the engine buckled as she pressed the clutch instead of the accelerator. She cursed in Hindi and got it right the second time just as Matt slammed the passenger door and kept up the volley of gunfire.

Between them, sat Jerome on the floor with Brad barely conscious on top; his blood seeped into Jerry's clothes even as pressure slowed the flow. "Yo, bitch. Don't sleep, you're in shock." The truck bounced as Ji swerved around the gathering mob.

A weak fist balled up and hit Jerome on the arm. "Fuck you, gangsta man." A wave of nausea hit him as he suddenly vomited over both of them.

Jerome wiped the worst of it off his chest and flicked his fingers hitting Matt's pant leg, though the hick never noticed, his shots sure and true as the bullets started to run out. "Yeah, keep that up. Be a playa hateh all the way to a doc, cause we did it. Gonna get you a gold grill when you see the dentist." Soon Matt was twisted around and firing behind them, a good sign.

Everyone slammed towards the left as the hunter in the back ricocheted inside and nearly toppled the several-ton vehicle, but Ji managed to keep control and slowed down a bit to stabilize. Brad's vision kept rolling though as he closed his eyes. "Not that worried 'bout my teeth anymore."

Jerome pressed harder at the bloody rag and patted Brad on the back. "Don't worry, pretty boy. I'll get you a beanie." He could feel the labored breathing and gritted his teeth to keep his emotions in check. He hadn't known Brad long enough to care as much as he did, but the man was a brother nonetheless. A bitch, but still a brother.

Ji's knuckles cracked as the blood on them dried, her mind fighting the guilty panic that wanted to take it all back, to let a pig rape her if it meant that her friends were safe and sound. "Check the cell, Matty."

He reached under the dashboard and pulled out a small case velcroed underneath. Brad had gotten it off a dead survivor and palmed it out of sight. Any unauthorized communication was punishable with a public beating, for security reasons of course, and all Hounddog ever heard from Beta base was scripted lies that painted its leaders as heroes under dire circumstances. They had thought to make an anonymous call, but the sat phone's battery was on its last legs and what if no help came? Their lives a low priority as long as they weren't zombie food?

Now everything had fallen into place and the famous and fair Jameson would himself pick up a hunter if anyone had one. If they could get to him, convince him of their usefulness to bring them back to his base as hunter hunters, then they'd be set. They had to be quick, before anyone else made the call and claimed first dibs so it took less than a day for them to gather everything and head out.

It was a fantasy, a childlike hope to be taken away from the bad things, but it was all they had to look forward too.

The phone chimed, the melody of its startup eating away at the precious minutes left in its lifetime. "Who's gonna make the call?" Matt palmed the phone which cost more than what he had made in a month.

Brad's chuckles sounded deathly, yet they warmed the silent cab. "It's your shot, Matty. Call up Hounddog and claim your prize. I know you got that number memorized." He tried to click his tongue in jest, but only manage to spread the blood that dripped in mouth around.

Though his side ached, Jerome shifted Brad to keep his head up. "Give our full names and make sure they get it right." He tried very hard to not think of the weight on him as dead weight.

Ji picked up the pace and let hopefulness brim in her one more time. "Don't forget to describe us, can be that many groups like us around."

A smile crept on Brad's face as he watched Matty carefully press the numbers in. "Yeah, Bollywood Beauty, Hillbilly Billy Bob, McGangsta and oh, Bloody Not-a-Zombie Brad." Despite themselves, they all laughed as the confused woman on the other side answered their call and reminded them that they were not alone.

----

Dr. May sat worriedly at the observation room just above Peter's cell. Dogcatcher Lee stood by her side, though she hated his title and its insinuation. They had discovered that hunters only eat what they kill and the only prey she had to offer was mice and squirrels trapped around the compound. The bigger game like deer was deemed necessary for human survival, so Jameson axed that idea before she even brought it up.

She had hoped that the animalistic instinct could be quickly overcome once hunger became starvation, yet still Peter ignored the food shoved through a small door two inches high. The pieces of bread, fruit and meat had begun to molder and Jameson would soon implement another class to be recorded. How to gage a hunter's attack to melee them away and then strike them down, take two.

She'd have Peter's mouth cleaned again and intubate him in order to feed him. He had no problem digesting regular food; he simply didn't eat it willingly. That wasn't the only problem, as Peter seemed to become morosely depressed and only moved about when Jameson entered the cell in full body armor.

She had heard down the line that a group near Beta base had captured a hunter and wanted to be part of the project. It warmed her heart as she thumbed a switch that turned on the speakers within the cell. There were many eyewitness cases that hunters worked in packs. "Peter, cheer up. We have another infected headed this way. I'm sure you two will get along just fine once you share a room."


	7. Day Five: Acquisition

**Day Five: Acquisition**

**Chapter 7**

**A/N: Alternate beginning cut due to length and lack of flow can be found at the end. As well as an alternate scene for a part in the middle. Ctrl+F and search A/N to find quickly if you like.**

The meeting between Jameson and the capturers of the new hunter was a tense one. He had made the mistake of appearing overly military to a group that had been oppressed by their so-called protectors and they could not set aside their prejudices.

As Jameson took an odd initiative and sought to subdue the rowdy special infected by a rather inventive method of gassing it with carbon monoxide from the truck's exhaust pipe, the survivors were taken aback as he explained what the game-plan would be. They would drive over to Beta base, restock, then reroute over to his base. This was met with cries that there had to be another way and he said simply that if they had a better suggestion then they should have specified beforehand. Now the hunter was under his command and if they wished to stay away from a safe zone, then they could without their armored truck and without his protection.

Before he and his soldiers -Smith, Wesson, Mike, and the medical trainee Miguel in Dr. Stacey's absence- could ride away, the survivors made a last desperate plea and told him of what goes on at Beta base in plain sight of its commander. In an even colder tone, he ordered everyone to squeeze into the truck as Smith and Wesson would sit on the hood on guard and he would drive the way there. About an hour-long trip.

During the drive, he was given names. Names he memorized and faces etched into his inner eye. Once more, he was challenged with a situation that curled his soul ever older. Once more, he would rectify a part of this world and force it to make sense.

----

By the time Jameson had arrived at the safe zone, he acknowledged the border patrol and parked the truck within the inner courtyard. His only company was the two soldiers that he trusted the most, men who joked and bantered with Beta base's armed forces. Men who had instructions to verify the claims and accusations blasted at the military stationed there.

Pistol in hand, he banged the truck's back cabin and listened to any distinctive growls and found none. When he unlatched the door, the hunter barreled out and collided with his stocky frame. Claws had caught Jameson on the arm and had torn away at the flesh, but the blow was weak and when he pushed the large mutt away, it stumbled on shaking legs and teetered to a side as unbalanced as a baby doe. The beating that followed was surrounded by cheers from the armed men and no one voiced concern when limbs were dislocated as Jameson hogtied the hunter so savagely that a contortionist would have paled in a dead faint.

He tossed the hunter back into the truck and instructed the men to refuel it and stock gas cans inside the front cab, along with some basic supplies. Through it all, he never saw anyone not dressed in the pixilated tans, greens and browns. Never saw a civilian head peek around a corner, never heard a questioning cry of what was going on.

A smattering of hands met his to congratulate Jameson and extend their admiration. He looked every man in the eye and noted that there were no female soldiers in the group, even though he recalled seeing women's names in the survivor list that circled a month into the infection.

Silence met his request to see their commanding officer till someone explained that he had asked to not be disturbed. At his insistence they had relented and the task of guiding Jameson was given to a runt of a man, much too skinny and bruised when compared to his comrades. When they reached the office door, Jameson told the man to wait. Wait, listen and learn.

----

Beta base was situated in a small town at the large crux of the local highway system. The highways worked like rivers and isolated the town as infected followed the larger roads filled with cars rather than stumble miles into the woods to find the town that prided itself with staying off the map while surrounded by the hustle and bustle of city life. This position meant that it was an ideal staging ground for multiple city rescues as long as it wasn't compromised. It was meant as a way station and any survivor that came here would soon leave to a safer zone in a more remote area. However communication and transportation degraded and the trips out became more erratic, till they finally ceased.

At this time soldiers outnumber civilians 3 to 1 as they have more fronts to protect and are encouraged to go on execution expeditions to keep the surrounding infected population from overwhelming them. Beta base thought of themselves as the most kickass battalion on the entire northern continent with more kills in their name than any of the other bases combined. This assertion had led to arrogance and now the soldiers felt entitled. The civvies had to pull their weight, had to complete the hard labor, had to comfort the men on lonely nights.

It was owed.

The commanding officer of it all was General Angleton. And actual General, not like Jameson that settled with Army Leader since he didn't feel right to take a higher rank. Angleton was Jameson's prior superior, their regiment had been at the right and wrong place when the heads of the safe zones were decided. Every leader on the east coast had served with each other and carried those old bonds into their new roles.

So even though Jameson was now an equal to Angleton he still saluted when he entered the dark office. Angleton eyed him wearily and drank from the bottle he held carelessly, the clear liquid wetting his front. Once empty, he tossed it towards a glistening pile, the fumes of alcohol wafting out in a thick cloud. He glared at Jameson's stiff form, immaculate protocol even as blood seeped through the bandages on his arm. After a time, he sighed and released him with a tired 'at ease'.

They spoke.

Angleton spouted excuses and defensive justifications.

Jameson nodded and agreed; his face marred with a smile that carried no cheer.

When they both left the office, the gaunt soldier saluted stiffly and ran out to call a small meeting as Angleton had requested.

----

A gang; that is what Jameson saw as he viewed all of the battle-hardened combatants sneering at the crowd of civilians sniveling at the back of it all. The numbers were too low, even with a visual count. Too many people unaccounted for, too many people running back towards the infected and too many people dying at the hands of fellow survivors.

The General addressed the crowd which cheered him even as his drunken state was obvious to all. At some point Angleton had been so inspiring as a leader that his men forgave his current weakness. He appreciated individuals, thanked his men for keeping the area safe and risking their lives day by day against a relentless enemy. Several names were called out; his best team, his exterminators along with others that were going to receive commendations in a more private ceremony.

In the town hall, the men stood proudly and elbowed each other playfully. Standing on the stage were four civilians whom were asked to bear witness. Angleton stood at the podium and smiled grimly at the two dozen men there. With a quick nod, he officially relented command to Jameson and placed his service pistol at his temple and pulled the trigger.

The shock of silence rumbled lowly as the General wavered and slumped over the podium in defeat, his unnerved hand shaking the empty gun. Jameson placed the bullets next to him on the wooden surface and recited a list of sins and crimes, the last being a lack of discipline that has corrupted his men and his command. The shot that followed thundered loudly in the hall and the flurry of action that followed as soldiers lunged at Jameson quickly ceased when Smith and Wesson brandished their rifles at the unarmed men.

Quick instructions were given to return to their formal formation and stand at attention. After two men were shot dead, the rest followed those orders. The rest of the civilians were called in, less than a hundred in all to sit in as witnesses. A dozen soldiers were brought in unaware of the scene inside, the earlier shots ignored as part of everyday life and sat without seeing the corpse of their commander seeping crimson into the rug.

Jameson gave a lecture on restraint and the need to place the mission before one's needs. His booming voice rang out that those that have kept their discipline had nothing to fear; that a soldier's reason to be is to kill the enemies of their citizens. Then he stood in front of one of the soldiers in formation, placed his hands on either side of his face, called out his name and his crime and snapped the neck in a sudden motion that seemed fake and unreal.

As the broken soldier twitched on the floor, the last impulses from his brain barely making it past his devastated spine, Jameson glared into the eyes of those in the crowd and explained in a few simple words that he would not tolerate disappointment.

Smith raised his rifle and killed a man about to stab his leader, the officer ignoring this as he would a fly, and grinned at Wesson. It had been awhile since 'The Lesson'.

The next group was called in to witness a man kill another with his bare hands and to learn what it means to obey. The civilians remained awestruck as the four original witnesses kept reciting what they had seen every time a new group of soldiers entered the hall and Jameson executed another failed soldier.

By the end, a handful of soldiers still stood in formation. Their faces tearstained and red as fear kept them planted to the spot. The stench of waste was heavy in the air as more than one corpse had released its bowels. The hall was full, the only one not there were currently manning the gun towers and keeping watch.

If they had wanted to rush Jameson and their men, they could easily overwhelm them and kill the trio. However, a place full of complacency is infectious and as the soldiers saw larger crowds each time sit and listen to Jameson, their will weakened to follow the consensus. The few that kept their freewill and tried to rally support against the outsiders were quickly killed with no preamble or acknowledgement.

Jameson approached the remainder of Angleton's best and placed his hands on one of the men's faces. The soldier nodded, said his own name and admitted his own sins. Acceptance brimmed in him and when Jameson tightened his grasp, he shuddered but didn't resist. The kiss placed on his forehead seared at his skin and when he opened his eyes, he was met with a friendly smile. Jameson declared him redeemed and steered him to stand next to Wesson who patted him on the back and handed him a service pistol.

The soldier, John, Jo-jo to his friends, was then ordered to gun down the remaining standing soldiers, each time naming and blaming them for their actions. Jameson's smiled turned horrible for a moment as he reminded John to not disappoint him.

Redemption was only given to one man, as the rest laid dead. John could have killed Jameson if he so wished. But he no longer did. He no longer wanted to indulge himself as the world went to shit. None of the soldiers there wanted to anymore.

Before Jameson left for his base he made John the commander of Beta base and reported to his superiors than an infiltration had taken out the best squad of zombie killers he had ever seen, Angleton included.

That secret still remains as has every other lesson Jameson has ever given.

----

The hunter could breath again, could think and feel, though now all it had to look forward too was the numb thump of pain coursing its spine and limbs. The stench of exhaust clogged its nose as it simmered at the floor of the truck. The jostle of the road banged its head against the metal frame, worsening the throbbing headache that stole the hunter's sight with blinding flashes.

It could sense the group in front of it. While its advanced senses could not see through walls, it could feel through them, could receive a myriad of information that translated into a bluish white outline of the cooler blooded prey. And the front cab of the truck was full of them. The four prey from earlier and five new ones, even a young one. The hunter had no eaten a young one since the start of its life, while it still had eyes.

It missed the respectable kill, so unlike killing a brother hunter or the simple infected. Whenever it managed to snag a lone prey, it became an out-of-body experience viewing the entire scene from several feet away, everything awash in red as light centered on its prowess, the tinkle of bells sweetly ringing as endorphins flooded every nook of its brain.

It truly did make hunters happy to pounce and kill their human prey, the virus modifying their brains to equate the feeling with orgasmic satisfaction. The shower of blood was symbolic and functional, staining cover and darkening it to merge better with the shadows, the scent of the blood warning to other hunters that the prey that bled unto it belonged to it. To carry fresh blood from different prey at once was a sign of a leader to be respected and feared.

The hunter had not been this close to so many prey in a very long time. And it wanted to savor each one slowly. It was captured, not killed, so it had no fear of sudden careless death. It would wait, it would stalk, it would trick. If the prey thought of the hunter as weak, they would become easy targets.

It would not struggle hard with the puny rope on its arms. The prey didn't know how strong it was when not poisoned with the bad air and that was good.

To be underestimated is always good.

----

Peter was cold again. Cold, tired and sad. It was never this sad back in the hunting grounds. The hunter got angry at his brothers and sometimes scared when a strongbeast almost cornered it after Peter had thought it was a large rock it could land on. But the hunter never felt sad. _LetmegoLetmegoLetmego._

Womantrap was touching it again as the roundtongue filled it. It made the hunger go away, but it hurt. _Pleasepleaseplease._ Smallstrongbeast had not hurt in a while and the hunter had started to heal good enough to runjumppounce but it no longer wanted to fight. _No kill prey. No eat prey. Just leave. Go to hunting grounds. Pleasepleaseplease._

When Womantrap had sent prey with loudstingdeath to capture Peter, since Smallstrongbeast wasn't around, the hunter had tried to cling high up on the walls, but it had no holds and the hunter could not dig its claws in deep enough. Instead it scrapped the wall and jumped around for hours and tired itself out.

The prey laughed and that feeling of humiliation burned inside again, but Peter didn't want to die. Didn't want Livedeath to pinch. Didn't want brightlights to blind. Didn't want its cover taken away again. _Keep cover, pleasepleaseplease. Letmego._ The hunter would run naked the entire way back to the city if it meant it could leave.

Sound crackled from a wall and startled the hunter, though it could not jump or tremble if it wanted to. The voice spoke and though Peter did not understand it, it heard 'Jay-meh-son' and felt a fear ripple inside as those sounds followed the Smallstrongbeast like the coughs of the longtongues.

A slap stung the hunter's left pec as Womantrap leaned in close and cheerily spoke close to its eyes. Lips and teeth moving slowly as alien sounds spurted out. _Nonono, no eat, please no eat. _It felt the thin fabric of the worn-out cover wrap over its head. _Yes, yes, letmego. _Blind to its surroundings it was carted back into the cell. When it finally felt movement return and adjusted the badly placed cover to its correct position, it cried out when it noticed the familiar and scratched walls, washed away clean again.

Even the bloody markings it had made with the small four legs that reminded the hunter of territorial boundaries at the hunting grounds had been removed. It didn't hurt as much as losing redteeth again and again, but it twisted inside the hunter as it didn't understand why it wasn't allowed to keep even a tiny marking that went unnoticed by prey in the city. It bit its finger and redrew the sign. It was unthinkable for a hunter to use its own blood for this; it was shameful to use small four legs, but if a hunter could not even kill one of those, much less a big prey, then doing it in its blood was a red flag of weakness.

If another hunter smelled it and traced it back to Peter, they would laugh and slash and kill because it was proof that it was weak. And no pack tolerates weakness. _No brothers here. Never see brothers again. Trap forever. Never runjumppounce in the highs, never race from stupid strongbeast. Never steal from longtongues. Never pop bigblinder. Nothingnothingnothing._

----

Peter could not read, yet he could write as the bloody scrawling he had so desperately retraced shone bloody red bright under the fluorescent lights. It spelled 'MINE' and he had bled consistently enough for Lee to be able to make it out as he waited alone in the observation room. Both he and Parker above both stood with identical wide eyes and slack jaws.

If Reilly had been there she would have clapped and hurry to meet the two hunters to see if they communicated more. Once the news reached her, she would be convinced that the word was proof that humanity still slept inside the infected mind and that Peter had understood her when she explained about the new arrival as he was intubated. That he had written on the wall out of some sort of possessive jealousy like an older brother that doesn't want the new baby to take all the attention away.

What happened when the two hunters did meet exceeded everyone's expectation.

**A/N: I had difficulty with this chapter. I finally decided to cut out dialogue and just bulldoze through it. I think it's because I'm writing more story than what I want to tell. It's not bad, it's more that this story isn't about OC's, it's about hunters and the experiment they're trapped in. I haven't even gotten to the first experimental trial and we're seven chapters in.**

**Anyway, below you can see how I started this chap.**

**Alternate beginning cut due to length and lack of flow.**

The blades of the helicopter whirled so noisily that after a while Jameson felt as though he was engulfed by utter and complete silence as no other sound reached his ears. He didn't know much about engineering, but something on this bird was loose and way past due on a check up.

Radio chatter had raced to him yesterday with a coded message on where to find the industrious survivors that wasted no time in capturing another mutt for study. Good fortune smiled down on him when one of the few helicopters was passing his way and could drop him off before heading back on their own duties, cutting his travel time to less than a day.

His squad was small; Smith, Wesson and the kid Mike to give him some breathing space and see some new sights, not to mention Miguel, Dr. Stacey's best prospect for a paramedic as the surgeon was an asset to important to risk out on the field. He left Lee in charge of the mutt back home with clear orders to never leave Dr. May out of his sight. He couldn't travel with anyone more due to the space limitations on the clunky copter and either way, he liked to keep his base well-staffed and protected.

On two separate occasions the pilot let out a muted whoop and jostled his copilot awake or nodded at Jameson to wake up the gunner in the back. Whenever a huge special infected, better known as a Tank, strolled in an open field they had standing orders to knock it down hard. Outside of cities, with room to stretch, the things had grown twice their previous size, huge pendulous arms that dragged behind useless and -by now- broken legs. There were eyewitness reports of roving bands of hooded mutts that followed the hulking tanks from a safe distance and used the distraction of its attack to strike themselves. If any military force with high caliber guns encounters any, they should immediately dispose of it and pick off any infected around. Which is why the ride was taking a bit longer than usual.

Migratory patterns, herds on the move, humanity degenerated back into nomadic packs, more hindbrain than forebrain. A new worrying problem after all these months in which a semblance of procedure had finally settled in, now to be restructured again to deal with new developments. The cities, towns and suburbs have been eaten alive, drained to the bone, and now the infected are on the move for more survivors. Like that beast named Peter in the cell, chasing an AVC hundreds of miles, and for what? It's just the harbinger of death and soon they'll be other zombies skulking ever closer to his base.

When infected outnumber people a thousand to one at the best odds, then time is humanity's biggest enemy and friend. It all comes down to who can wait out the other.

The tank down below roared at the sound of the chopper, its lower jaw still dangling from a strip of muscle all black and rotten. Before it dug out a large rock from the loose soil, thick legs more stumpy bones than limbs sinking in, the gunner unleashed a single burst of gunfire that obliterated the entirety of its head. With a yawn, the soldier secured the weapon, stretched once and fell back to sleep, his days simplified as he never left the helicopter for more than a few hours to refuel and restock.

Shortly after the helicopter circled once around a clearing a dozen miles from Beta base, dipping teasingly to see if any Lolling Larrys tried to snatch with their muscular tongues, if any Bloated Bobbies tried to cover them in putrid vomit. No infected rushed forwards while screaming their mindless heads off. It should have been expected as the people next to the bank truck shouted and waved to the crew in the chopper, as madly as any recently rescued survivor.

As it lowered close enough to jump off, Smith and Wesson leaped out first, rifles at the ready and covered the perimeter, startling the civvies into uncomfortable silence. After a thumbs-up, Mike and Miguel dropped down with heavy backpacks and shoulder bags in tow. Before he settled himself to jump out, Jameson reached into his rucksack and pulled out an unopened bag of fun-sized chocolate bars, out of sight from everyone on the ground. The pilot eyes grew wide in disbelief; in the new depressive world order, chocolate had run out quick. Hand opened in wait, Jameson quirked an eyebrow and curled his fingers in a gesture of trade.

The pilot glanced at his two crewmates and pulled out a piece of paper and wrote down the radio frequency he and other helicopters could be hailed at, along with a series of short confirmation codes. Before, every pilot would be drowned in calls for help and accusations of cowardice, lies about how secure the pickup point was at the time and soul wrenching pleas for anyone to please come get them. Many flew for days on end, swallowing caffeine pills and even doing speed to rescue that one last group. A higher up stationed on one of the few battleships still floating at sea, instituted a communication quarantine to segregate those sane pilots left away from the suffering masses that needed them. People radioed in and spoke to the filters, whose jobs were to gage the present need, the odds of survival and the sanity of the survivors. If they deemed it reasonable, they would inform their superiors who would make the final call and then the pilots would be informed of where they had to go.

It stacked time against the survivors surrounded by infected as the radio crackled uselessly, but the rate of mortality for the helicopter crews lowered considerably after that. Only to be taken up by the filters rate of suicide, but those people were more easily replaceable and required very little training in comparison.

Jameson didn't have the clearance for a direct line to a helicopter, had gotten the flight due to luck and via communication with his superior. However, with the right frequency, it would be assumed that his orders are to be followed and he wouldn't need to go through the morbid bureaucracy of it all. The large officer didn't want to abandon his base or duties; there were no undertones of spinelessness in his acquisition. He simply wished to accumulate as many assets as he could and retain them as he planned to push his position higher up the rickety chain of command.

Paper in hand, Jameson hopped out and landed square on his feet. The civilians were covered in dried blood, rusty red and crusty on their skin and clothes, cautiously approaching though their eyes swam in hasty need. He only saw three of them, though the report had specified four. "I'm army leader Jameson, call me sir. Your injured man, is he still alive?"

A weight seemed to have shifted inside the trio as the lightly brown woman nodded carefully. "Yes, hi. I'm Ji. Uh, he's not doing so well." Her eyes widened so suddenly that Jameson could see white surround her entire iris. "I mean, Brad's not a lost cause or anything but, I…I don't see any doctors with you. Isn't Dr. Stacey here?" She wrung her hands, worry and expectation made her twitchy.

Their nervousness troubled Jameson; the skinny guy with the cap kept his gun pointed down, yet never took his finger off the trigger, the short guy covered the most in blood was posturing with his chin jutted out and ready for a fight. "Miguel here, he'll help stabilize your friend. If he needs it and you actually have a hunter, then we'll talk about seeing the good doctor." As the officer tried reading the group, he found that they thought of him as a threat and was undecided on how to approach him. "What about the rest of you?"

The one missing teeth and had a southern drawl gestured at Miguel and pointed him towards the still body lying inside a ratty sleeping bag. "Name's Matt. We all doin' good. More than ready to kick ass if need be." His eyes trailed from soldier to soldier, finger stroking the trigger, the safety flicking up and down.

The woman spoke in quiet authority as she pierced him with her dark eyes. "Matty, don't. Go see if Brad wakes up, okay?" A weak smile struggled to seem amenable as she walked up to Jameson and crossed her arms. "I'm sorry, sir. He doesn't mean anything by it; we're just a bit tired."

Folded paper disappeared into an empty pocket as Jameson strolled around her and met Matt's eyes unflinchingly before the latter strolled away, then rounded to look down on the other man. "That leaves Jerome, so that must be you. Let's see this hunter then. Sooner we get this done, sooner we can all rest." Tensions were running high, more than what the situation merited. He didn't have their obedience, so he let the aggression slide with pointed indifference.

The armored truck's driver's side rested bloodily open as Jameson noted the safe room door lodged inside. "That must have taken some doing."

"Damn straight, and if…" Jerome's words were cut off as a resounding blow shook the truck on its wheels. Another soon followed as dents started to pepper the side panels. "Shhh, it can hear us. If we stay quiet it calms the fuck down."

Jameson felt along the dents and noticed that they were oddly small, the force concentrated at deadly points. "Shoddy armor or this mutt is a strong one." As he spoke, energy drove against the spot he was standing against, rivets along the edges loosening. "Mike, hand me that shoulder bag." The kid flinched when the hunter banged right by his head, but Jameson kept watching impassively as the integrity of the cab continued to degrade. He pulled a wide, long hose out and fitted it to the exhaust pipe with a metallic zip tie. He quickly snaked it to the front cab and kicked at the red door blocking the broken grate just enough for filthy claws to snap out and scrape the paint off. Jameson unstrapped his service pistol, planted it dead on the hunter's backhand and pulled the trigger. The smell of cordite and burnt flesh filled the cabin as the infected howled and banged harder on the walls.

He secured the hose to the slanted opening, about a foot dangling inside, and wrapped heavy duty duct tape to secure it in place. The engine choked once, then roared to life as Jameson floored the accelerator while in neutral. He glanced at his wristwatch, laid against the seat braced against the wall and waited for the struggles to cease. No one spoke as the soldiers kept their guard up, Miguel scrapped away dead and festering flesh from the wounded man, Mike stood silently as he took a mental inventory of his possessions and Ji, Jerome and Matt waited uneasily.

The lack of pomp made everything surreal; there were no explanations, no congratulations. Only dry acknowledgments as the supposedly _good_ army leader calmly decided to suffocate the hunter they had worked so hard to capture; had even brought the supplies needed to make his own DIY gas chamber. Jerome broke the silence after a few minutes. "What the hell, man? Why are you doing this?"

"Just an extra precaution. The stray is agitated and needs to be neutralized before we string it up for transport." Jameson's eyes appeared serene and detached as the struggles grew harsher and more desperate, the rubbery tube zipping against the duct tape as it was pulled inward. "It'll take a couple of hours to be on the safe side." He eyed the gasoline gage. "Miguel, can we move him?"

"Yeah, we need to get him to a base. The wound clotted and I cleaned it up, but the guy's dehydrated and really weak." Jameson nodded at the shout-back and exited the truck.

"It'll be tight, but there's no point in wasting gas if we don't need to. Get him in. We're going to Beta base."

"Waitwhat?! Why? ….Blablahblah Not working_._

**Alternate scene for the execution at Beta Base**

When they both left the office, the gaunt soldier saluted stiffly and ran out to call a general meeting as Angleton had requested.

----

A gang; that is what Jameson saw as he viewed all of the battle-hardened combatants sneering at the crowd of civilians sniveling at the back of it all. The numbers were too low, even with a visual count. Too many people unaccounted for, too many people running back towards the infected and too many people dying at the hands of fellow survivors.

The General addressed the crowd which cheered him even as his drunken state was obvious to all. At some point Angleton had been so inspiring as a leader that his men forgave his current weakness. He appreciated individuals, thanked his men for keeping the area safe and risking their lives day by day against a relentless enemy.

By the end of it he was weeping and Jameson took command and said that their leader was a great man. Such a good man that he chose to die for their sins and that's when a single bullet shot rang out and the sobbing ceased.

In the silence that followed, the soldiers realized that none of them had weapons on their person, as Angleton had asked to keep those locked away in case the civvies decided to pickpocket again. Before the first shout to rush Jameson had been called, Smith and Wesson had shouted a name and a crime, and shot men dead from their roost on two of the gun towers. Since soldiers scrambled towards their positions or the barracks to grab a weapon, they had no time to recite the rest of the names. Still, they checked it off a mental list that was getting ever shorter.

Amidst the chaos Jameson gave a lecture on restraint and the need to place the mission before one's needs. His booming voice rang out that those that have kept their discipline had nothing to fear; that a soldier's reason to be is to kill the enemies of their citizens. Only those that made themselves into enemies of humanity would be shot like a dog and left to rot. Several of the women in the back clutched each other and sobbed, whether in relief or despair was uncertain. What was known is that the festering wound that was this base was being cauterized by a butcher; not a politician, not a diplomat, just a man that had no more patience.

By the end of it, the civilians outnumbered the soldiers left. Not that all those who died were guilty, but all those that resisted this change of leadership…no no no, why kill so many. Jameson wouldn't be able to keep that quiet and keep his position.


	8. Day Seven: Secrets

**Day Seven: Secrets**

Chapter 8

The new hunter had to be processed and deloused before samples could be taken. It was worryingly easy. There were no growls. There were no struggles. A sudden jolt when the hoodie was removed, yet not the emotional dependency as had happened with Peter. Just lax muscle that didn't resist as Stacey injected four times the lethal dose of Pancuronium into the jugular as the skin on arms and legs had hardened with scabrous boils and deep scars.

It had such a minimal effect, completely inefficient, yet this fact was caught with mild amusement by Stacey. He neglected to inject any more of the chemical for the rest of the spinal tap and chuckled lightly as the murderous hunter kept its body still, yet could not hide the tensing muscles that revealed its trickery. The only other person there was Lee as this hunter wouldn't be getting the beauty treatment from Dr. May or Gwen, and Jameson was busy familiarizing the new refugees with the workings and expectations of the camp.

Once Lee was done retying the straps and ropes over the hunter, Stacey clapped him on the shoulder and grinned as wide as his wounds would let him. "You better watch out for this one. This Jack thinks it's smart."

Eyes wide and scared, Lee tried to match the grin and failed to. "Really? I mean, yeah, it's bigger than Peter, but the mutt's been a pushover." Nonetheless, he held his rifle upright, hand on the trigger and stepped away, cautious and strung out.

The doctor shook his head and led Lee out of the room, to leave the hunter to stew on the observation table. "The bastard's been able to move this entire time. It's faking us out. I haven't wasted anymore of the paralyzer on it." He easily moved away when Lee whirled back and leveled his weapon at it.

It didn't twitch like Peter when he cocked the trigger or noisily clicked the bullet chamber back in place. Breath cloying at his lungs as he shuddered in near panic, Lee saw that Stacey spoke the truth. "How the fuck could you touch it then? Why didn't you say anything?"

A soft chuckle and a shake of his head, Stacey showed his lack of worry with disturbing ease. "What difference would it have made? It would have taken more time and Jameson would have thrown a fit at Dr. May about the dangers of it all." He straightened his back, feeling the vertebrae settle in place and let out a stiff breath as his bruises throbbed dully back. "'Sides, what's the worse it could do? Kill us? Don't know about you, but this business has me not caring either way."

Startled by the careless indifference, Lee set his gun down and marveled at the taller man, mouth quirked in an incredulous gape. "What's wrong with you? It could have scratched one of us!" Because, at least for him, that was a lot worse.

Perceptive as he was, Stacey didn't catch the obvious, but that's what hindsight is for. "We're immune, it doesn't matter. Jameson's still healthy." He gripped the Dogcatcher by the shoulders to continue down the hallway. "You know, I'll get in trouble if this gets out but you're way too stressed." The lilt of his words insinuated how that might be remedied.

Lee furrowed his brow and looked at the manicured hands that held him with quiet strength and decided to take the safer route of what he thought might be offered. "He'll never let me get away with drinking or drugs. What do you have in mind?" He silently begged that that was it; he really didn't want to deal with another unrequited stalker.

With a click of his tongue, the druggie doctor pulled out several packets from his lab coat and waved them right in front of the soldier's face. "I have a stockpile of nicotine patches; takes the edge off without the health or addiction problems from cigarettes. Nobody will ever notice." He wasn't going to share the sweet stuff like Valium; he had those rationed for himself, but a fellow user to share the forbidden highs would be welcome company.

Even though he had never smoked in his life and actually did some activism to get it banned from his college, he snatched the packets from the doc's hands and ripped one open. "You'll hook me up? Why? It goes against the big man's orders." It took him a couple of tries to press it on right, but he got it to stick to his upper shoulder where he had seen commercials on TV teach him how. Anything to feel looser, to not have every nerve ready to burst at the slightest scare.

"He isn't god or my daddy. A little help on the side is more beneficial than not." He pulled out half a dozen more and pushed them into Lee's front ammo pocket. "I like you, Lee. You remind me of myself. I don't like working with infected either, but hey, gotta do it anyway. I'd rather have you watch my back when I finally get the go ahead to open one of these Jumping Jacks up." There wasn't any other normal person this deep into the experiment. Between the military psychos and iffy scientists, Stacey wanted to form a bond with someone that saw how messed up everything was getting. "Smith and Wesson creep me out. They like the boss and his way of doing things too much."

Lee paused from placing a second patch on his other arm, a frantic memory of what happened to the guys who stole an AVC and supplies from under Jameson's nose bubbling up. "The Lessons."

Stacey nodded as he recalled the one he witnessed when some addicts weren't useful enough and still tried to feed their hungers. "The Lessons. Just because something works, doesn't mean it's right."

Breath held, he could feel the slow burn of chemicals soothe his headache away. It was worth it. Fuck Jameson, this little bit of pleasure was worth it. "Sure, what's nicotine going to do me anyway? I need to relax somehow." The world is going to hell in a handbasket, he should try to get as much as he can.

///////

In the deepest levels of the laboratories, two researchers played a game of 'Guess Who?' across the thick, hermetically sealed and shatter proof glass that encased Dr. Benstein's workstation. Their questions about the other's card revolved around genetic deformations and racially unique features, about which alleles in particular chromosomes were predominant and which were recessive, about possibly parentage and life expectancy.

A simple twist, so they wouldn't feel a bit silly about playing a child's game.

Dr. May sat outside of the sterilized lab and spoke through the speakers there, the system already in need of some maintenance as Benstein's voice came out crackling one time out ten. Nobody would ever fix it. "It's getting to be too late, Ben."

"That new hunter was that bad?" He hadn't left to see this one. He had snagged his suit on a corner table and there was now an inch long rip. Instead everything was brought to him as he refused to leave till they localized some laboratory grade tape to patch it up.

Still in distress from her encounter, she sniffed softly and firmed her mouth. "That, that…infected is not like Peter. He's diseased. The scars and boils on his skin. Peter looks a bit sick, that's all." Sick and scared, like a lost little boy. "He's still human. But this hunter, it even sounds more monstrous." The echoing growl when Jameson had hauled it through the detection screens, even with the alarms blasting she could still here the reverberated snarls that bounced off the walls.

Benstein chortled as he nodded his head in knowing superiority. "It? It's not like you to be biased, Reilly." He found her sentimentality with the infected to be comical in her ignorance. She always cared too much, humanized the experiment enough to make any results questionable.

She slammed her hands down and knocked the colorful tray of plastic aside. "It scratched its eyes out. It still tracked me across the room." There was no way to relate to something like that. It was somehow worse than the bloated or tumorous special infected, because it had caught her off-guard.

With twisted hands, already besieged by the ravages of old age, he slowly flicked all of the garish faces down. "Oh, do you think it is echolocation, or maybe your heat signature?" He smirked at her with a jolly face that belittled her fears.

Unable to see the contempt in his eyes, she pleaded for his understanding, hoping to crack what she saw was his stagnant scientific mind stuck decades in the ethical past. "Stop it, Ben. Listen to me. If the hunters, the least mutated of the special infected are changing into worse, then…"

Taking offense to her didactic tone, he cut her off to dole out his own instructions. "Firstly, we already knew that it's a highly mutating virus. In less than two weeks, regular people turned into acrobats and hulks. Secondly, just because the hunters look the most human doesn't mean that they're mutated the least. I've seen the videos of Peter. Those are the actions of a caged animal, not a man."

Perplexed by how she was the only one to see it, she pleaded in Peter's defense. "That's not true, he even wrote…"

"It means nothing!" His raised voice crackled at the end. Face flushed red he was no longer the merry soul that personified grandpas everywhere. "You had more written on the walls, instructions and questions to see if he'd react and he didn't. Just scratched at them and wrote in his blood over it. That is an animal marking its territory."

Astounded into slack-jawed silence, she sat back down and glanced away to the broken child's toy on the floor. The disproportioned faces gleefully smiled and scowled her way, a grim reminder of all the survivors living above them, waiting for her promises to be fulfilled.

A tap on the glass tore her sight back. "When are you putting them together?" Benstein's face was back to its tranquil state, the outburst ignored.

After all these months, she no longer recognized the man who had mentored her for over two decades. So much anger hidden underneath it all. His query had her thinking of eggshells and all the king's horses and all the king's men. "What?"

A stiff burst of air snorted out of his nose, his mouth disapproving of her lack of presence. "There's only one cell left to us by those bastards that tried scapegoating us." The slim mention of the heady secret they shared compacted the seriousness of his query. No matter her apprehensions, both hunters would share a small living space.

Still, Reilly couldn't help the protective streak she had fostered for her charge. "What if it's a new strain and Peter gets infected with it?" A more than reasonable fear.

Tired of her stalling, he rubbed his temple and his bald scalp, already spotted by liver spots. "Dear, he's already infected. If Jameson hadn't been healthy by the time he'd returned then I'd be worried. This new hunter can't infect the already immune."

"But Peter is not immune." It sounded petulant to even her ears, but she persisted on.

From his scalp to the back of his head, then back to rub his face, he continued to spout what to him was painfully obvious. "If it is as you say, and the mutation is advancing, then it would be better for us to have two specimens with identical strains of what's to come."

"I promised Peter that I would help him." There, the crux of her argument. A commitment she had made back in that open field when Peter hadn't attacked her when he could.

He tilted his head back and exhaled in exasperation. "Think of it this way, he either didn't understand you, or he'll know that you're doing what's best for humanity." Ben changed the subject before they remained stuck in a debating loop. "Does this new hunter have a name?"

"There weren't any IDs on him. Jameson wants to call him Matt the Mutt, but one of the new survivors is called that. So…" She rolled her shoulders as she couldn't care less. "I guess Hunter. Just plain Hunter."

Head snapped back, he frowned at the name. "It'll get confusing. That's simply sloppy nomenclature."

"Doesn't matter. It's going to be the control since I've already started to reform Peter with the cleanings and by reassuring him whenever I can." She leaned down to pick up the red tray of cartoony faces and attempted to reattach the pieces that had snapped loose. "I told Jameson that he could place that one in the steel dog cage, but he said that it nearly broke out of an armored truck, so he doesn't trust it in anything less than ten inches deep and reinforced."

"How about _Homo infectus venator_?" Infected gladiator?" He grinned like his old self, full of charisma.

Comforted by the sight of her old friend back, she smiled and scolded his choice. "Venator. That sounds like a urinary tract antibiotic. Stacey calls the new hunter Jack, because he calls them Jumping Jacks like the nursery rhyme."

"Jack? Jack be nimble, Jack be quick? That Jack?" He tilted back in his chair and curled his hands in front of his rotund belly.

Feeling back to herself, she grinned optimistically and nodded, then shared a comfortable laugh that didn't pierce the dark secrets they hid from everyone else.

//////

There were details about both hunters' lives that were lost to the chaos of the infection. Their human lives had predisposed them to how they now stalked, killed and socialized within their groups.

Peter had been part of a group of dedicated dare devils that had amassed at a college near one of the best dirt bike tracks on the east coast. The grants and loans supported an adrenaline filled life with little responsibilities. He had only a few years experience when compared to some of his peers that rode before they walked; considered a rookie and mudface that slammed against the ground more often than not. But he was persistent, he was cocky and he knew that he was better than them, his practical experience not yet caught up with his mad skills.

The tattoo on his arm was a drunken bet amongst his friends; the twists and turns were a random design to represent the muddy track and their action filled lives that didn't really go anywhere. About a quarter of the hunters in his native hunting grounds had this tattoo hidden under ratty clothes. Their playful jibes had morphed into deadly disrespect as he was considered the runt of the pack. In his city, it was all about reputation, it was all about image. It was about making the kill and not letting anybody steal his thunder. It was about bloody badges of proven skill and red teeth. Claiming territory and keeping it. It was about fitting in with the pack yet making himself seem more awesome than anybody else.

And just like before, he was persistent, he was cocky and he knew he was better. No matter, he couldn't compete and hunted alone because he didn't fit in either.

The other hunter, now named Jack, had lived in a violent city and had been a ruthless man. The high crime rate had led to a large hunter population and more guns for the immune. It was survival of the fittest; it was about pouncing and claiming a kill, ready to fight off any opportunistic hunter that would slash away at flailing arms as bloodlust blinded the rightful hunter that had pinned the prey. There were no territorial markings, too chaotic as packs formed and collapsed as there was never enough to go around. Even now, cooperative stalking only lasted till feeding time and hunger left all bonds broken.

A blood-soaked hoodie was not a mark of reputation, it was a sign to back off and flee in fear. Skill did not matter, number of kills did not matter, neither did red teeth or blood markings on walls. All that mattered was the now, all that mattered was whether or not the hunter was full on a fresh kill or starving enough to slay a brother. All that mattered was survival.

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack was hungry and oh so sick.

//////

_Jay-meh-son here. Dok-tor Mei here. Dok-tor Tay-see here. Lee here. Me here. Always here, trap here. Wait. Rest. Listen. Rest. Watch. Rest. Trap._

_Kill Smallstrongbeast Jay-meh-son. No care. Death. Pain. No run. No escape. Kill and die and be free. Just free._

Peter wasn't doing too well. He had learned names, he had learned customs, he had learned when to expect the pain and when to submit to livedeath. It had been a bad week for the hunter. By their nature, hunters require freedom of movement and vast areas to explore. They need heights to jump from in order for adrenaline to pump through their bodies and they fall into deep depressive states when they haven't killed worthy prey since they become starved for endorphins.

By her actions, Dr. May was killing Peter's spirit. His last desire was to kill the large man that beat him badly and take that to the darkness that followed death.

He could faintly sense all of the preys' presence across the hardglass and was prepared to wait for the Smallstrongbeast to appear so that he could shower in blood one last time, to die with brightly red teeth, to die with what its diseased mind considered dignity.

_Pair of prey, SmeethWaison, coming, coming. No kill. Wait. Kill Jay-meh-son, wait _

_WAIT!_

_Smell? Brother? Yes, brother! No, NO! Brother. Brother laugh, slash and kill. Brother come and take place. Before kill Smallstrongbeast, before red-teeth, before be strong and intimidating and happy._

Stricken by panic, Peter tensed muscles and crouched low on the ground, unsure of how to act. Despite his dreams of leadership, he had never dominated another brother, had never been as intimidating as to demand obedience. Scared and hopeful, he expected a familiar face that might spare him the fight he felt too weak to participate in.

_Kill first. Be strong. Attack first. Be fast._The pair entered, guns raised as Peter held his ground and waited for them to leave. It hadn't taken long for him to learn that it wasn't worth it. On the ground lay the prone form of a large hunter. _Bigger, no, no. Be slow, pleasepleaseplease. _It still wore its deeply stained hood. _Why?! Why not me? _Peter had no way of knowing that Dr. May unknowingly granted this mercy since she felt too disgusted to see its disfigured, darkly mottled body. The exposed limbs experience enough.

Flowing tight against the wall, he rounded the soldiers as they untied the ropes and shrieked when he saw the deeply copper-stained teeth grin back mockingly. _Whywhywhywhywhy!? _This was too much. At least if they had been equally destitute of honor, he could have had a chance of forming a pack. Wrapped in a clean white blanket, teeth cleaned and whitened, –they had actually whitened his killing tools –, he looked like crazy prey that became feral rather than pick up loudstingdeath.

Hyperventilation racked Peter's body as it readied to pounce on the new brother and kill it before the livedeath left it. With one last swipe at the crimson filled mark on the wall, Peter was prepared to defend his territory.

SmeethWaison left and the room filled with Peter's growing snarls as he jumped up the wall in order to fall down hard. Just as he was about to turn around and plummet over his brother, a strong blow smacked him into the wall and slide down sudden enough to pull his makeshift hood over his face. His yelp cut short as he felt teeth grip his throat, one squeeze away from agonizing death.

Quivering in fear, arms and legs shaking, he felt heavy breath flow over his neck and let his body slump in submission. _Brother too quick, too strong. Livedeath do nothing. No die, pleasepleaseplease, not like this. _Teeth tightened and pierced skin as he felt lengthy claws stab deeply into his arms. It hurt much worse than when his brothers in his native hunting grounds stole one of his kills he had spent so long to stalk, held down as the prey screamed their last at the claws of another hunter. His joy taken away by the leader of the pack.

Then the tight pain slackened as a snuffling growl scoured over his face and a clawed hand tore the blanket to shreds. This close he could see the gory sockets still seep out watery fluids and the flesh-covered teeth with sharpened points snap by his nose. _Yesyesyes, leader, follow leader. Obey leader. _There was no spoken language between the infected, only inflection and body language that might reach the remaining human centers of communication. With short grunts Peter tried to communicate his capitulation in anticipation to live long enough to kill another leader that held him down.

Neither Jameson nor May nor Jack knew this about Peter, of why he didn't fit in with his pack brothers, of why he hunted alone.

He wasn't strong enough to be a leader. But he didn't fear them either and simply waited for them to lower their guard and kill them in secret.

He knew he was better than everyone around him; it was only a matter of experience catching up to his mad skills. No one had the right to stop him from being the best.

Jack may have hated competition, but Peter reveled in annihilating it, especially when they never saw it coming.

//////

Congratulations, leaders of the once safest base on the northern continent. Fire has been introduced to a wick. Whether it be the soldiers or the scientists, even the hunters in their midst, secrets abound and have started to rot from within like a cyst. Be weary and wary as soon many will be sick.

And there's nothing to be done about it.

**A/N: Sorry that this has taken so long. I've been writing for Prototype and FF8. If you like my style in this story, then check out the Prototype fic via my profile if you like. **

**The FF8 stuff is much different than this and I think that most of the readers here wouldn't like it. It's slash, you see. And no, 'A hunter captured' is NOT going in that direction. Genfic stays genfic.**


	9. Day Seven: Revelations

**Day Seven: Revelations**

Chapter 9

The secret harbored by Dr. Reilly May and Dr. Benstein is not truly important anymore. It won't change anything to have it revealed in the grander scheme of things. The largest consumer on Earth will still be consuming itself, nutrients will re-enter the cycle of life and the planet will move on in its impassive pace around the Sun till the Universe re-collapses into itself or the star of its solar system goes nova. Most likely the latter.

It really doesn't matter, because humanity is truly and utterly changed. Irrevocably. There's no coming back from a zombie apocalypse. There will only be society before the event and after the event, if society manages to hold on.

By the way, the largest consumer by number is bacteria, not humans, as something has to degrade all of that organic matter. _Homo sapiens sapiens _has never been at the top of the food chain. That is a spot reserved for parasites and diseases that will never be brought to their metaphorical knees.

And the reason for that is simple genetics. Survival of the fittest on the light speed lane. It took millions of years for humanity's ancestor to develop opposable thumbs. It takes some viruses less than a day to render null multi-million dollar research into vaccines against them.

When battling those odds, mankind's tactic of slowly chipping away at their enemies till a major weakness is revealed actually makes the virus and bacteria stronger. Because they will adapt faster than scientists can study, develop and counteract. In the end, trying to rid disease from the game-field only pushes disease to be better beyond its wildest Darwinian dreams.

And for that same reason, Reilly and Ben's secret doesn't matter anymore. And they know this.

Let the obvious be stated plainly. CEDA is responsible for the infection. Not the people who work under its banner, nor the CEO's or beaker pushers. The company as a whole, not its individual parts, is the cause of societal collapse and human annihilation.

It started with a young and ambitious researcher that worked with plant genetics several years ago. Many genetically modified corn and soy are tampered with the same way. Rather than use a gene gun to pummel gold particles against the tough cellular walls of plants or carefully pierce it with a miniscule syringe, the preferred method is a bacteria that causes plant tumors. _Agrobacterium tumefaciens _carries a piece of desired DNA in its plasmid rather than the coding that causes tumors and penetrates through the cell wall to interact with the plants readers and synthesizers. The new DNA is merged with the old and VOILA! Corn that requires less watering.

In any case, this young ambitious researcher thought of another cancer causing virus, the Papiloma virus that's better known for causing cervical cancer, and how maybe –perhaps– techniques used on plants could be used on man. Instead of a small plasmid, the virus had a double helix of DNA. A rarity amongst the rare DNA viruses. So much information could be added and transferred to the human cell.

He was unaware that at the time geneticists were already using lentiviruses to experiment with mammalian DNA, but human trials were no where near feasible. Regardless, his ideas surpassed their own predictions by decades.

He published his thoughts and theories on a paper that circled CEDA's labs as a joke and let the idea die since ridicule overcame his innovative aspirations. He became a nameless face that methodically injected the right amount of nutrients to grow baby plants in a sunless room; another warm body in a white containment suit in a sterilized room.

He also died a meaningless death trampled under a human stampede at the eve of the major outbreaks.

Only a couple of years ago, a different young and ambitious researcher (this one dealt in modifying human genetics and designer babies, a career choice that was quickly circling the drain as public opinion had the government outlawing it) found the paper wedged between old Sunday morning comics strips and funny only-other-scientists-in-that-particular-field-would-get jokes.

It was an eye-opening read. If he merged his knowledge and advanced techniques with those in the paper, he wouldn't need to worry about the stigma of designer babies. He could help people become designer adults. Change the dominant genes in eyes to change the color, in hair to have it grow thickly, in anything to avoid the possibility of heart disease or cancer. Muscles could be taught to repair themselves into athletic prowess, the autonomic system to respond more quickly, even brain chemistry could be altered for the better.

He didn't publish his theories, but he did catalogue and detail that how's and where's at his lab computer, which was company property as well as all of his findings while under contract to CEDA. When he was pink-slipped as a dead-end branch of research that didn't merit any funding, he lost ownership to his childhood dreams and fevered speculations. Company intellectual property now. Something to be paraded in public when stocks were down or their current flagship drugs lost their profitability. If he so much as breathed a word to anyone of his hypothesis, he would be slammed with lawsuits and cease-and-desists.

With a several hundred thousand dollar student loan pressing at his back and his parents moaning their disappointment at his failure, he moped in a dank basement and scoured online for legal loopholes to exploit. Instead he found rumors about CEDA doing some backroom dealings using tax money as the payout. Soon after, he became an active conspiracist and worked his hardest to deter the sprawling corporation. He felt vindicated when he saw a Smoker strangle his neighbor. Proof that it had all been true.

He recognized his handiwork and with a wide manic grin breathed in the spore cloud and became a common infected that lived no longer than a day afterwards.

The third young and ambitious researcher (by now, young and ambitious researchers should have been banned from ever stepping into a lab, but that's bitter hindsight wailing in the corner) had easily hacked the system to flitter about all the knowledge and science that would never meet the public eye. She was in the pharmaceutical department, dealt in wonder drugs. The type that will regrow hair and enlarge a certain part of the male anatomy. Sometimes that hair would grow thickly on hands and feet and the prostrate would be the part enlarging, but that's what warnings were for.

Of course, she found the second researcher's work. Of course, she added her own twist of making a versatile and multipurpose cure-for-all, altering the genetic code till the double helix looked like a small deformed chromosome. Of course, she found a more efficient way of treating the subject for quicker results with faster readers and synthesizers. Of course, a superior found out about it and stole it for his own advancement. Of course, she was cut out of the loop and later fired for 'unrelated reasons'.

Of course, she died in the first waves of the Infection in an ironic manner.

There's a pattern forming, but it's not fate. It's simply the human mind looking for a reason why. The sad truth is that there is no 'why' in life, there's just 'is'.

CEDA's culture of betrayal and robbery is common and mundane. There is no evil plot behind it all, no villain rubbing his palms together. It just is.

That is, till the fourth ambitious, not that young, researcher. It's still CEDA's fault as will be seen, but this man is the fork in the road, the point of no return. If time travel was a feasible concept, this is where the continuum bullet would seek its target.

The fourth researcher wasn't really a science person, more of a businessman than anything else. A company shark. He knew enough to recognize the holy grail at his fingertips, knew enough to conceive the billions of dollars to be made. Knew enough to pull strings and form deals under the table.

What he didn't know about was how catastrophic his shortsightedness would be. Of the genetic Pandora's box that had no fail-safes designed into its code. The first would have told him that _Agrobacterium_ had been beaten, modified and defanged before it could be controlled, that the Papiloma viruses are little understood. The second would have told him that complex genetics in mammals are not a matter of a single sequence, rather a conglomeration of factors that play off each other, something that always needs fine-tuning and varies from person to person. The third would have told him he should have experimented with a closed group, that free-roaming subjects tend to contaminate and get contaminated by their surroundings, that there's always some funny guy that pockets the pills to sell on the street.

There weren't any clinical trials or animal testing, not even a Petri dish swabbed for observation. It was a hundred percent hypothetical scenario that hadn't even wet its toes in the waters of experimentation. If he were to present the data as is, it would take decades of research to even breach the molecular level of this possible cure-all. He would be long dead before human testing would be deemed safe enough to try. The find was that revolutionary and on the fringes of science.

He would only get a mention in the abstract, if that. Maybe a nod in a footnote.

The scientific method is a slow beast when it wants to be, and the fourth doesn't want to wait on it. He would jump right in there, disseminate the Cure-all in a random assortment of people, take notes, then try again if need be.

Highly unethical? Yes. Dangerous and inefficient? Yes. Cost-effective with quick returns? Yes.

As mentioned before. A businessman more than anything else.

First he decided on his scapegoat, which is where Reilly and Ben come in. Outpost Need-to-Know-Only actually was a dead end. Always has been, but a cozy one where CEDA's talent ended up when they didn't fit in but was still useful. He crossed memos and greased some hands to sweeten orders to get the compound retrofitted and some data dumped into their servers. Only to be revealed if he needed to make it look like everything was their idea. Not everything though, just enough. If it did blow up out of control, he held the most adequate vaccine and only sent prototypes to their labs in sealed containers with Open by dates.

It was underhanded, but nothing compared to his half-baked plans for unknowing masses.

A misplaced period manufactured 100,000 samples instead of 1,000.00; his list of possible ground zeros around the country had made its way down to the mailers as a list of all directions to send a thousand vials each, each lab and health center with strict instructions to conduct a double-blind experiment with a new 'Super Vitamin' shot. All without his knowledge, but a ten second phone call would have put a stop to it.

Problem was nobody questioned it; nobody made a call or verified its veracity. This is how the blame falls in CEDA's lap. It stifled independence and initiative, punished the inquisitive and rewarded trickery. It didn't willingly create zombies; it simply allowed it to happen within its ranks.

CEDA had tried to monopolize applicable science, just like a certain company has tried to do with mega-stores and low prices. It approached the cash-strapped government with a budget-solution that would save the taxpayers billions every year. CEDA could replace FEMA and the CDC for half of the price. Their interdisciplinary workforce could easily handle any terrorist attacks, natural disasters and super-diseases. All under one easy paycheck.

It even had plans to develop a PMC branch that could replace the National Guard. Luckily for the survivors that never happened, or else they'd be truly defenseless.

Resources stretched so thin no one had even connected that the largest and earliest breakouts happened on the doorsteps of their installations. It is no wonder that CEDA bungled the rescue and containment operations, no wonder that when the fourth tried to offer his vaccine (though carefully as to not directly tie him to the monsters raging outside) he had waited too long and the virus had mutated unrecognizably. However, it made him seem knowledgeable and quick-minded.

Now he stood by the acting President of the United States and Dr. Reilly May reports directly to him, Dr. Derrick Mathews. He knew that she was full of it when she claimed to have dug up all of her data from scratch, knew that she must have been confused and terrified by all of the graphs and growth charts suddenly popping up in her inbox and desktop, knew that she had no idea he was to blame.

He wasn't going to uncover her deception because it risked his own. Besides, deep within his curled and guilt-ridden soul, he hoped beyond hope that a real scientist could fix his mess.

//////////

_Itch. Scratch. Burn. Scratch. ITCHBURNSCRATCHITCHITCH. _

Peter could feel the wet of his blood flow down his arms and neck, knew that he was hurting himself in front of a strong leader. But he couldn't help it, instead of healing like any normal wound the bites and scratches burned. If it had been a foot or hand, he would have gnawed it off by now.

It was maddening and he wanted to rip the throat out of the new hunter. That seething hate settling in his mind was a symptom of the new strain making its way through his brain. Before reaching cold calculation like Jack, a hunter goes through a berserker period, which few survive if enough immune are around. Careless and bloodthirsty.

Peter remained more or less himself because of his weakened state, his mind tempered with more human levels of endorphins and adrenaline rather than the overdoses of biochemicals enjoyed by healthy infected.

The larger infected snuffled the walls, each time sneering at Peter when he smelled a blood marker. Even the ones washed away. No human blood, not even a drop. Jack had never known of a hunter that could be surrounded by prey and not manage to at least scratch one.

Though hungry, it spared the weaker runt to learn of the prey's ways and patterns. See what they had stored for it. Use the weakling as an ally or distraction for an escape. Now it wondered if it would useful for even that. As it rounded the small hunter with a tattered cover now only over its head, Jack let out a warning screech of attack.

Quicker than expected, Peter was on his feet and facing Jack, teeth unbearably white as it tried to demand respect, though Jack could only smell the lack of decay and a spearmint mouthwash still lingering inside. The bloody claws and chest would have been more impressive, if the scarred hunter couldn't sense how it was only self-inflicted wounds weeping weakness.

A hunter in blood only, so frail as to be easy prey. The last remnant of humanity crowed hoarsely as Jack faked to the right and rounded back to slash across the exposed chest as Peter was in mid-leap.

The force of the blow propelled Peter backwards, a shock when he hit the wall and slid down to land on a plate of still-fresh moose meat. Fire raced across his chest, four trails of liquid pain deepening inside, the tingle already begging to be scraped out. Fueled by not only pain, but the humiliation and impotence caused by livedeath and womantrap, by everything that has stripped him of his being, the captured hunter waited till the new one was within range and shot forward low to the ground. Almost too quick to catch Jack sidestepped, ready to attack Peter as he scrambled in his trajectory, however not fast enough as teeth snagged his exposed arm and dug as deeply as it could.

It grabbed Peter by the neck and ripped him off, a sliver of skin following along as the hunter was hauled upwards. Claws rained over its arm as feet kicked an unbothered chest and stomach. So very weak.

But not a coward and not slow. Jack could use him. With a low growl, Jack squeezed tight enough to cut off airflow and brought their faces close. Suffocating and defeated, Peter still strained to snap his teeth on flesh and rend it. Satisfied, Jack headbutted his lesser and replaced fingers with teeth as he reasserted his dominance with a warning snarl.

Struggles took longer to cease and only aided in deepening the wounds on Peter's neck to the point he nearly nicked his jugular. Peter's desire to live was stronger than his desire to win so he relented and submitted again. When he was released, he soon regretted surrendering as Jack ripped the last rags of his cover into useless strips, the brightlights suddenly washing out the burning in his wounds as he howled in agony.

He didn't know why a Leader would ever desire to be this cruel, but Jack only wanted to force Peter to tear out his eyes and be a better hunter. Peter was also unaware that if he didn't do it soon, Jack would do it for him.

///////////

It was a mercy that Dr. May was in the observation room and shut off the ambient lights. She hadn't cried, but she will in her quarters. At the moment, she shook in quiet rage with a sickened face that smoothed her features and made her look younger.

Dr. Stacey was the first to speak. "Anybody get the feeling that Peter's a bit of a bitch?"

It broke the tension in everyone else as Jameson clapped the man on the shoulder and Lee shook his head as he wiped his eyes. They didn't care if Peter died. He was just a hunter. Something to be replaced if broken. Sample #1 for the experiment. A guinea pig with a short life-expectancy.

They could give a single moment's thought about reforming human lives. All those pigheaded imbeciles cared about was themselves and killing the next zombie. Belligerent military neanderthals. Even Stacey who graciously gave up his pillow. Stitched-up two-faced cretin. Jameson can shove his backwards protocol where the sun doesn't shine and keep that stick he keeps there company.

She was going to save poor Peter. She had a vaccine. Not ready yet, but better than the one Dr. Matthews presented months ago. It had to work. She could tell by his ceaseless scratching that he had whatever disfiguring strain that Jack brought with him. Time was running out and options were becoming more and more limited, it just had to work.

Please, it has too.

A/N: Tidbit about the author, I graduated with two B.S.'s in Biology and Industrial Microbiology. I haven't done anything with those degrees but make up scientific mumbo-jumbo for fanfics. Go me.

Also, yes. Dr. May is that pissed.

Edit: Feb 8, 2010

Decided to switch out this paragraph after a readthrough. Too crass, too fast. Not in line with her previous inner thoughts.

**They didn't give a flying fuck about motherfucking reforming human lives. All the fuckin' bastards cared about was themselves and killing zombies. Cocksucking military assholes. Even Stacey who graciously gave up his pillow. Stitched-up fairy cuntrag. Jameson can shove his cockbiting protocol up his tightass along with that stick he keeps there.**


	10. Day Eight: Consumption

Day Eight: Consumption

**Chapter 10**

Hitching sobs ebbed into silence, a weak gasp rasping out before she managed to contain it.

So quiet. Emotions at bay, her heart still ached though without the crackling shards of despair piercing throughout. It had taken her the better part of a week to calm down. Much less than average, more common as of late. Much easier without the gunshots and screams, without the shrieks and thumps of the jumpers, without the chaotic crashing of walls and wailing cars hurled through a mob.

Those beings had left the city, left it to the idling crowd and the vomiters, to the coughers on the rooftops, and her kind in the shadows, the criers. It certainly wasn't a quiet scene, but it was tranquil in its way; the softer sounds were more akin to a babbling brook by a chemical plant than the rushed craze of collapsing urban life.

Though tears had long since ceased to flow, she still wiped at her face carefully with the back of her hand, the crusted blood long since stained in as it didn't smudge at contact. Clawed fingers were only twice as long as a normal humans, instead of the over foot long sabers of the others, but they were sharp enough to cut through steel. Sharp enough to render her nearly nude as habit had her pull at her clothes and the infernal heat flashes had her avoid seeking out new cover.

When calm her eyes were dim, their sensitivity manageable as stray sunbeams that reached her haven only made her slightly wince. Large streaked glass windows had miraculously survived so far; the view past them had browned out, dust-filled and sun-bleached, the once scarlet stains now darkly copper. She searched through the grocery store she had settled in, its coffers still plentiful after all this time. Especially considering she never moved far and any normals that approached too near encountered her unforgiving wrath.

With calculated delicacy she raised a tin that had collected rainwater from a hole caused by a frisky jumper that overestimated his landing, and now whose remains still lied gnarled and shredded underneath dilapidated shelves. Though rust flavored, it soothed her raw throat, filling her empty stomach. She thirsted for more yet held it at bay and reached for an indistinguishable tin which she easily sliced apart. Picking out the morsels of food with the tips of her claws, she savored the salty gravy that flooded her mouth with saliva. It didn't matter that it was cat food, her hunger could no longer tell.

It was impossible to eat or drink or sleep when on a crying jag. Each exhausting day aggravating her sorrows, the pain compounding and spreading so deeply that numbness was the only respite. There weren't that many criers left, the ones that had never broken free from the well of sadness had long since starved to death. It had taken a little more than a month, ghoulishly thin waifs with only a few strands of hair left on their skull-like heads, eyes sunken into fiery pits, claws as long as their arms. Those beings had hidden so deep that no normals had ever seen them. Seen them and lived.

She wasn't like them, because she had learned a secret. A secret happiness that kept her from sinking into the turbid waters of despair. That kept her from wandering the streets in plain daylight, hoping for release in any shape or form. She didn't know why it worked (phenethylamine, but that was something she wouldn't have known before infection in any case) but tin-foiled bits of chocolate kept her misery away long enough to take care of herself. To camouflage her den and keep quiet when normals were running around. To remember enough that she was very sick and the people with guns were not. Sane enough to know that there was no coming back from the monstrous mutations that had distorted her frame, starved her into an emaciated size 0 when she used to be a 14.

She didn't eat human flesh. Most of the infected did because it was the most plentiful food to be found, though the odd ones that jumped around seemed more feral about it. Didn't matter anyway, because she didn't. Nonetheless, she had killed because she wouldn't give up her provisions and the big sign of the store led too many normals to her. Apprehension and anxiety always racked her as she heard them approach too closely, their flashlights nothing more than beams of pain that stung more than their bullets. Unable to cope, she would begin to whimper, then choke out a cry, then release a longer sob that dragged her back into a wretched rocking that compulsively left her defenseless.

When she was lucky, they would veer away and leave her be; she would be able to stop within a day, no harm done. When they ignored her warning cry, whether by accident or design, her head would throb as she looked at the surprised faces, death so sudden they blinked astonished as she lingered above their torn bodies. Her wounds healed easily enough from the bullets, but her heart never did. Stupid candy that kept her aware.

Stupid candy that was running out.

Only one more bag. She had to spread it out, make it last. Every time she had one, she wanted to gorge on the whole bag, so she did.

So, so stupid. There's barely any left.

She stroked the bag, its contents crinkling seductively. Might be best to go out with a bang, or save it up for the end. Or…It wasn't fair! She had so little, but she didn't want to die. Life was unbearable, but she didn't want to die. She would go crazy without the chocolate, but she didn't want to die! She. Didn't. Want. To. Die. *sniff*

Oh, no. *long wavering inhalation*

No, calm down. Happy thoughts. *low guttural moan*

Everything will be okay. *drawn out cry*

No, it won't. Everybody's dead. And she killed them because she's a monster, a selfish bitch that doesn't care about the normals. But the normals could just leave her alone, why couldn't everyone just leave her alone? She never sought them out. She never wanted to kill them. *keening wail*.

*clickclickclickclick*

Light flashed on and off, its sudden appearance jolting her still. How long had she'd been tranced in melancholy? She gasped as it flickered again, viewing her shadow wink in and out of existence from the wall. As she turned to look, a few normals giggled.

Giggled.

Thrillseekers.

Dangerous.

Torturers.

Her fear was giving way to wrath. Then the light flicked off and despair settled back in, her compulsion to rock and weep overwhelming her survival instinct. Hovered over protectively, hidden with her arms, laid the bag of sweets. That last one.

"Shh, man. Watch mah back. Imma gonna crown the little princess." Young and brash, trinkets and trophies dangled from a strap around his chest. A collector, a scavenger, opportunistic thief. Most of those she killed had been like that.

"Trying to beat my record? You got the last one, dude. My turn." The companion, just like him, though he carried more bombs and ammo than trinkets. Still, he brandished his weapon at her and flickered the lights tauntingly. Another fool. She growled warningly.

The first pushed the second aside, taking their eyes off her. "I got the shotgun, you got the AK. I win, fuck off." Arguing over her like schoolboys, her agony and death a game to play.

Door slid open with a barely audible creak; background light left only the black silhouette of a larger man. "Can you two stop bickering? Let's kill the witch, grab supplies and get out. Can't handle a tank with these peashooters." Older, wiser, likelier to get her killed.

"What tanks? The big baddies are in the countryside, brah!" Back turned away, careless and unworried. They must have encountered her kind too often. Learned that it took much to provoke into action, to free them from the all-consuming misery. Her snake-rattle of a cry an attraction rather than warding protection.

"Easy kills across the board. Pop some boomers and air out the smokers, we're good." Go away, leave her be. A migraine crept up her spine, all the sounds and lights egging on the pain to bloom inside her head. If they didn't leave soon, her fury would burst out, revenge for the hurt she wallowed in.

A hiss between teeth, the shadow moved forward and she could see his cragged face and cagey eyes. "God, you ever heard of a jinx, asshole? Fuck it. Leave the witch alone, she's in a corner. We can grab enough from the other side of the store."

Weapon pointed her way as he reloaded the shotgun, the sharp clicks as he resecured the barrel prodded her to kneel on one knee, arms spread out in intimidation though she lacked the presence of more gruesome witches. "Nah, man. She got something between those long legs Imma hunkering for."

The companion punched the first on the arm, his gunsight leaving her face momentarily. "Gross, dude. Yuck. You a corpse banger? Get a common one, some of 'em are passable." Closer by, she could see his trinkets in better detail; a leathery whip of tongue, a gargantuan finger bone, locks of white hair.

Sounds of disgust from across the store, out of her line of sight. "That's more than I wanted to know." He was stealing her food, but quietly. Each addition to his bag nothing more than a soft clink. No, NO! She wanted to attack, protect what's hers, but the inner balance of anger and depression hadn't swayed enough.

Frustrated growls made it past her clenched teeth, her insides swelling with pressurized fury. All ignored. "Shut it. I get plenty back at the camp. Ladies want to get in on the good genes. Imma talking about something that can net us a ton of goodies from that rich guy in the bunker, Mr. Sweet tooth." Weapon dipped downward and she knew then what they wanted. Her little miracle joy, her only relief. Not that, not the last one.

She lowered herself as they rounded her, picking up the bag to hold closer. The act of forethought, proof that she understood them, that her human mind wasn't all gone, went unnoticed. "Holy shit, how the fuck did she get that?"

Gruff voice, suddenly more interested than vigilant, rose up from above the shelves. "Might be more around. Put her out." A spectator now, a voyeur to her execution.

Light showered over her again and remained. The first one hovering behind her, his shotgun at the ready. She roared woefully, croaking sobs cracked her already stripped throat. "What's that? Don't like me too close, honey? Get up and dance with me. Show me that pretty face." She knew what he was going to do, had seen other criers die that way, kept quiet to stay alive as the normals cheered.

Might be best to end it like this. Nothing to live for. It was quick enough. Could be painless. She turned to him, teeth bared, mix of rage and agony swirling inside. Eyes fixed on the barrel, white beam piercing her skull as it hid the face of her killer. "Nighty night, princess."

The blast was deafening, each decibel peeling back her sanity. Buckshot slammed against her face, ringing her skull, migraine blossoming in torturous magnitude, her sense of self shrinking into a protective speck as instinct took over.

The shot had been off, it didn't pierce her eyes and scrambled her brain; her skin, muscles and bones toughened to kevlar quality. A curse that kept her alive, a curse that made her deadly. A curse the man swore at her as he twisted to run away, his shots ineffectual as it ricocheted off her body.

The others now on alert shot at her as well, but she knew who hurt her first, knew who deserved to share in her suffering. Bastard rounded the shelves, knocking over what he could, pushing the older man into her path. "Whatareyoudoin'whatAREYOUDOIN'?"

She pushed at him with the back of her hand, but he didn't budge out of the way, feet tangled amongst strewn merchandise, gun held midair as he tried to squeeze to a side, to let her pass. Not enough space, bastard was getting away. She sunk her clawed hand into the obstacle's throat for leverage as she then dug her sharpened toes into his belly, climbing over his body as blood showered over her, bowels dragged by her feet.

Bullets strafed her side, the impact colliding her momentarily to the floor. "Get out of the store, get out, get out, get OUT!"

A shotgun blast ripped at the top of her skull, bloody hair falling to the ground as she stood up again. "Shoot the bitch dead, shoot her!" Her eyes glowed fiery red, the quickness of her movement trailing the light in the darkened room.

The companion, the collector of hair, laughed as he shot her. Uncaring, he stood aside as she ran past into the midday sunlight. "Keep running. We got this."

Whooping laughter filled the empty streets as her knee was shot out, damaged enough to leave her limping. Another blast hit her shoulder, her stomach, her foot. No longer aiming to kill her, aggression no longer fearsome, a slow death all that awaited her. Her screeches at the injustice of it all mocked by the normals.

Then her fellow infected appeared, the gunshots attractive enough for the specials.

A wet slap smacked against the bastard's face, the rest coiled around his chest, one arm raised between tongue and throat to keep from chocking. She staggered towards him as he struggled, unhindered from weapon's fire, her wounds already sealing up though her ravaged kneecap did not recover. "Motherfu…fuckin' smoker. Knock me loose!"

The friend chuckled, then crowed as the other was pulled up a wall, the cougher nowhere in sight, tongue scrapping away flesh at the building's edge. "Worse fucking luck, dude, don't squirm." He steadied his weapon and sighted the shot, shaking his head at their troubles.

As the first rose up, his arm dislocating at the increasing pressure, he could see behind the stalled trucks, could see the boomer toddling up. "Shit, behind you!" Too late. Putrid bile rained over the would-be savior, blinding him, forcing him to puke as the vomit had made it into his mouth.

A faraway group howl signaled the encroaching mob. "Fucknoshitdamnit!" No longer enjoying the scavenger hunt, he screamed and shot all around, hitting none of the infected that had yet to arrive. Bullets ricocheting against walls and glass, into alarmed cars that wailed in mock distress.

Another inhuman howl resounded, louder and closer than the last. The ensuing freak out sealed the normals' fates as the AK was reloaded reflexively and aimed higher. "Arrrrghhhh! Fuckin' asshole, you gut shot me."

Finally able to wipe the scum from his eyes, he could see the rip of bullet holes that opened the dangling survivor like a zipper, intestines slowly coiling out as blood-saturated feces spilled out from the wounds. As he hyperventilated, realization that he was now alone sunken in, the unwounded boomer let out another stagnant shower.

He wailed in denial as he ran off, blinded and on the verge of blacking out.

"Where are you going? Don't leave me! Come back!" Fat tears fell as the bastard bled much too slowly, pain skimming the border of his mind as the adrenaline wore off. He never expected to live long, but he never wanted to die slow. If his arms hadn't been tangled by the tongue, he'd had blasted his head away the second his stomach had been ventilated.

The witch couldn't care less; though heavily injured she tried to scale the wall, to slice away his face in order to forget what he's done to her. "Oh, shitshit. You wanna a piece of me, honey? Come on, baby. Come and get it, you ugly bitch." His skeleton grin, face tight against the pain, beckoned her to end it. Smokers beat up their victims; hella slow, hella messy.

She grabbed at his ankle, her sharp fingers digging past his jeans, past his tendons, till they reached bone. She pulled, gristle and fabric fell into her face as the normal screamed, cursing her to hurry up, to do the job right, even as the smoker reached out to hook hands underneath arm pits and haul him up.

In the distance, gunshots and a single person's screams chorused his demise, the hollering of the diseased drowning out his calls for help. As she reached up his thighs, each inch arduous agony for the immune, he rained obscenities down, the cloud of spores from the smoker already choking his words.

Then the world was nothing but sound, a wave of force that hurtled a 'no smoking' sign that slammed mid-chest and knocked the witch off down two floors and toppled the smoker that had overbalanced himself. In quick succession heat bellowed out and warmed the cool February day.

The scavenger had survived the fall as well. A broken spine his reward for living, pain a low echo at the back of his mind. A ball of flame and smoke rose nearby, its heat crinkling paper and the flesh of the now dead that peppered the ground. Acrid smell of burning gasoline smoldered away the last sense of smell, ringing ears disguising the surroundings; yet his eyes could see the witch crawling over his mangled body. Her own had been badly twisted, jutting bones of broken ribs poured out her lifeblood, covering his open wounds. Her eyes and ears bled as well, their sensitivity leaving her senseless after the blast, but she could feel.

She leaned close to his face, felt his laborious breathing across her skin, each breath a losing struggle to support the dying man. She keened then, sobbed and rocked as she straddled him, the pain of her existence overwhelming the hatred. He couldn't take it, watching her move like a cheap whore, the kind that would do anything for a tin of food. "…bitch…kill me. Come on'…slut. Slice…me up."

Her cries stopped and she stroked the sides of his scrapped face, claws tingling against his raw skin. He knew then that she understood him. Had always understood the survivors. He had killed enough zombies to not be surprised by this. "Please…it hurts. You…know 'bout that, don't you? …Kill me." Her head tilted skyward and she screamed, the orange flame highlighting her wounds. Fingers splayed over his face, she leaned down, feeling as the bridge of the nose gave way, the slickness of blood that warmed her hands. With a quivering sob she clutched, resistance hard then soft as her fingers racked all the way through.

As she looked back down, eyes recovered enough to tell apart shadows and outlines, all she saw was a mass of mush in her grasp. Clarity of sound was returning to her as well, the cougher's shuffling steps alerting her of his presence. She watched as he kneeled by her side, the outline of his tumorous head recognizable in her dimmed sight. He coughed, wheezed, then screeched questioningly in that high-pitched way coughers did.

She had just killed by choice. Her first time. It struck her at how at peace she felt when compared to killing during a rampage. She didn't feel like running away to hide, to repent her shame of being a monster, to grieve the dead and her situation. Instead she was numb. Numb and lonely and aware. Utter desolation. She shook her hands free from the slimy mess she had created, left the dead for the sick man to eat as she slid off the ruined one, lying in the street like a corpse herself. Unable to chew due to the tubular tongue, the cougher picked out the softer organs to swallow whole.

She pushed at her ribs, to get them back inside before they healed out of place. The blasted knee had already sealed off, the bones set in a jumble of fragments. She'd never be able to run again. Her vision returned, adapted to the bright since she didn't run into shadows. From her side, she watched the morbid feast, first the pink brains, then the torn flaps of skin, skipping past ribs to reach into the gory hole and pull out the liver, each piece swallowed quickly as he moved to other parts. Though tall, the cougher was skinnier than usual, his clothes loose and baggy, still distinguishably military with pixilated browns and beige. Unlike her, he couldn't rely on the preserved goods as nourishment.

Squelching belches approached from down the street, the scent of burning sewage tagging along. Upside down, she saw the vomiter totter to a side before exploding, the heated gasses in his belly had reached critical mass. Behind him, the crowd was running, heads held, lighting others in flame.

The fire. The gas station had exploded and a fire was spreading. Her shelter. Her food.

The bag of chocolates.

No, no. She pushed herself off the ground, limping heavily as she rushed into the store. Windows now shattered, littered the floor harmlessly. Safety glass, she thought. Cans rolled and expired bags of chips popped as she stepped over them. Where did she drop it? Where was she shot first? The air was heating up, orange embers falling from the front, wood crackling.

She didn't want to risk a flash fire. Didn't want to go up in flames. It took so long for criers to die, everything took too long to kill them. But fire was the worst. And sometimes criers would survive it. But no longer cried. Just screamed and screamed for days and days till they succumbed to their injuries.

The thought of it made her inhale worryingly, exhale with a quaver, moan in distress. She had to stop. Had to resist it. Not here. Not now. Please. To anyone or god or spirit or mom, please, keep her from crying. Please, please. Not like this.

The crinkle of plastic brought her back, she had shuffled into the bag. Now focused, she grabbed it; claws nearly ripped through. Luckily it had enough give to not tear. She ran out into a different street from the one she had been in minutes ago. Though it was day, the dark smoke clouds had hidden the sun and raging flames painted the surroundings in flickering oranges. A heavy heat shortened her breaths, body recoiling away. She didn't sweat. Too dehydrated for too long for that.

The cougher had made quick work of the dead man, the pockets of his jacket bulging with fleshy remains for later. Still he tried to rip an arm loose. Had he not eaten for that long? One of the crowd ran up and started to gnaw at a leg, then another and another, pushing the cougher away. That was very unusual, she had gotten out of touch with the rest of the sick. The crowd had shied away from the specials before. Then again, coughers didn't kneel close to criers and this one had.

Coughers were more cautious than that, used to be anyway. They died easy, were slow. Still, they managed to hide well, to get away from danger. Like now, a raging inferno should have had this one running.

A manhole cover shot up into the air, burning crowd pushing out, a river of fire beneath them.

The gasoline had gotten into the sewer, such a big explosion and still so much fuel. Every apocalypse movie and book had her assume it would be empty, the rush to escape a cause to hoard and drive away. But that isn't how it happened. There wasn't any real warning.

Like now, her normal escape route underground was a deathtrap and she didn't know where to go.

Another explosion from farther away, she couldn't tell where. All of the smoke hid the danger. Where to go? No time.

She eyed the cougher, still struggling with the crowd for a leg. Hunger more of a motivation than preservation. He would know a way to safety. Coughers always knew that better than any of the sick. She hobbled her way and shouldered him away from the corpse, screaming at him, words long since lost to her. He flinched, arms held up, yet she pushed him again. Arm held up and circled around, showing him what he was ignoring.

The tall man wheezed, glanced at the mangled corpse, then at her. He screamed then, voice gravelly yet glass filled. Through the crackling and snapping timbers, the holler of the burning crowd, another cougher's yell pierced through. She didn't understand it, it all sounded like gibberish, but he listened and reacted by heading in that direction.

Stunned, she realized the coughers communicate, warned each other of incoming danger, of a safe route. It was so hard for her to keep her mind cohesive; she thought none of the sick could do it. As she followed behind, her wounded leg kept her slower than the other special, she saw him reach into a pocket and remove a bloody heart. No, the others still weren't like her. No stage of starvation would enable her to swallow a heart while running from a fire.

Such a depressing thought. She tore a small hole into her bag of goodies and took out a single chocolate to suck on, tin foil still on. Clear headed, she hurried her pace, intent on surviving long enough to eat them all.

//////////

"Hallo, hallo. This is Lani for the Communication Nation with news from the West Coast. Hate to say, but healthy living has taken its toll in California and other quasi hippie states. Since the infection hit at the end of the year, we didn't have that many crops up and running, so hobby gardeners be glad that spring is on its way because we are out of food. You know all those preservatives that cause cancer and obesity and yucky-yuck-don't-wanna-eat it? Well, they preserve food. I know, right?

So when it's taken out of food, even in canned goods, it's not gonna last that long.

Yay, moldy prunes.

I mean, even most of the pet food didn't have preservatives. What the hell is up with that? I could do with a can of friskies about now.

Of course, there is old-school food to be found… in the cities…full of hungry infected….surrounded by starving hunters.

Good luck, scavengers. Much love and muchos besitos.

By the way, we have reports that San Francisco is burning, so scratch that off your list of places to visit before you die. Oakland though is still holding strong as a base camp. Thank you, lack of gun control.

Anyway, safety tip numero uno for our corner of apocalypse, DO. NOT. EAT. FROM. BLOATED CANS.

Let me repeat that, a bloated can is not filled with more yummy food. It's filled with botulism and death, okies? A germ gets in the food, grows in it, releases a heat-resistant-toxin that stays in the food. No amount of boiling, barbecuing, baking, searing, cooking…broiling…sunbathing…blah blah blah… is going to make it safe to eat. Use it as fertilizer or to kill some rats. But you can't eat the rats afterwards, so nix that idea too.

Anyway, that's it from me, Lani. And to all you eastcoasters, don't send love. Send food.

Stay tuned for the comedic stylings of Arnolfo. It's in tagalog though. So you'll probably understand one out of every five words no matter what language you know.

Byes!

/////////

Parker switched off the radio and leaned back, the crick in his neck kept his head crooked towards his chest. He had been eavesdropping, more like a peeping tom since he couldn't hear anything on most of the feeds. But there was still something to be said for body language and all it communicates.

Like Dr. May plotting something and being very obvious about it.

Or Jameson wanting to get into the cell with two hunters by the way, to videotape another class when what he wants is to beat the shit out of something.

Or the doctor and the dogcatcher sneaking around and trading secrets.

Even the hunters had a story to tell. Peter had fallen asleep after screaming himself hoarse and Jack watched him. Just prowled around for hours and waited till Peter woke up.

Not in a caring way. In a hungry way. In a 'Jack licked at the blood and growled, then padded off to the plate of still edible meat and ate it'.

Which disproves May's conclusion that hunters only eat what they kill.

That's just Peter being picky.

///////

The itch was gone. Miraculously, thankfully gone.

Now there was only the burning left. A deep rooted ache that pulsed with his heartbeat.

And his heart beated very fast.

The cylindrical cell was still dimly lit, but Peter could see the other hunter. The leader. The weakling that was going to get its throat ripped out, bloodgush and deathbit, no mercy, because Peter did not like it when leaders imposed dominance and made him hurtbleed for no reason. And this one ripped small cover for no reason, because it was intimidated by the strong hunter that Peter was, is and will forever be!

Peter hated Jack. And it was damn personal.

_Killyoukillyoukillyou. Runjumppounce. Scratchbiterip. Shredpulltear. Killyoukillyoukillyou._

From across the cell, Jack smirked as he adjusted his hoodie, flakes of dried blood falling off in layers. Some of it was Peter's blood.

_Stupid cover. Kill you, take it. Mineminemine._

As a slim rectangle of light shone into the cell, Jack startled up a wall. Peter chortled at that. His reaction had been more extreme, but Leader hadn't witnessed that. He now knew that it was just the prey leaving behind no-good-food and water. Nothing else. He struggled to the water basin and drank two gulps before he felt a weighty impact at his back, joints cracking.

Jack breathed against his ear, hot and meaty, the proof of his redteeth on every exhalation, then bit him. Not a light bite; a bite that pierced the tip of his ear, snipped it off and was swallowed. As blood flowed, it was lapped. Then claws sank in, warning growls to move away. _GetoffmeGETOFFME! _Peter struggled with the heavier hunter, squirming as he tried to buck Jack off. More dominant growls, the kind that claimed ownership of a meal. Peter didn't understand. If Leader wanted the water, Leader could have just pushed Peter away.

For several minutes, Peter attempted to escape as teeth carved out shallow wounds and a tongue followed after. It wasn't life-threatening as Peter would heal. But it was demeaning and like losing his cover, Peter had no idea why any leader would be this cruel.

Hyperventilation shook Peter's frame. It was an anxiety attack, the latest in several he's had since being captured. The pain from his wounds, the burning, filled him with so much fury, but he had no strength for it, no outlet. Just like escaping, just like killing Jay-meh-son, he wanted to kill Leader so badly. But he had no idea how or when. Just that every second he spent being subjugated was an eternity in hell.

Jack dismounted, pleased with the wash of endorphins that mimicked a human kill to a lesser degree. It would do for now, but he had other hungers to feed. He drank the rest of the water the prey had left. Why? The hunter had no idea. But the weak one drank freely so Jack didn't worry about it. He then ate all of the food. Bits of meat, and a small portion of cream of corn. He was still an omnivore after all, just with a heavy lean towards cannibalism.

The screech of disgust jolted Jack as Peter swiped at the grime covered face.

Peter was appalled, because Peter never had to adapt to it like many other hunters were forced to do.

_Scavenger! Weakpathethicscavenger!_

Jack understood though. Understood that not only was the other hunter weak, he was inexperienced and ignorant.

That wasn't an excuse for challenging Jack's authority, of course.

No more waiting; Jack would eat fresh meat, strengthen his would-be ally and reassert his supremacy in one move.

**A/N:**

**Sorry for the long wait. Yes, on the east coast we have a project to find a vaccine. On the west coast, there's a witch with partial immunity with help from the happy chemical. Things are brewing. Let's see if any of our protagonists live long enough to do anything about it.**


	11. Day Eight: Concessions

////////

Day Eight: Concessions

**Chapter 11 **

**A/N: There's some dialogue that may be difficult to understand towards the middle. If you want an immediate clarification, you can Ctrl+F the (#) next to it, since I've written the dialogue clearly at the end.**

The low rumble of a burning metropolis lulled the night into stagnant chaos. Yes, glass shattered and buildings crumbled, kindling to feed the flames; monuments of business, art and culture no more spared than the rattiest hostels and bars. Yes, common infected hurried away from agonizing demise towards the bridges that connected San Francisco to the East Bay, only to be shot down by an exhausted militia of immunes desperate to keep tens of thousands of hostile ghouls on the other side. Yes, witches screamed and writhed as their dens succumbed to the violence of an angry world and boomers' liquefied innards burst pestilence unto the ground to be broiled into a pungent stench that ailed any who breathed it in. Nevertheless, it was a sluggish catastrophe, a mild disaster, an event that would not be mourned or commemorated.

When the world ends, what does a city matter?

///////

Wheezing and puffing the Smoker (a.k.a. longtongue a.k.a. cougher a.k.a. Lolling Larry; he thought of his kind as Pig-Pens, a childhood favorite) had to stop for a second, to clear his congested throat and lungs and get some air in. It wasn't just the tumors that distorted his face and neck that made it hard to breathe. It was all the spores he inhaled with every breath. It was worse than a hassle, it was life threatening.

Never mind the unusual ache in his stomach as though he ate something bad, an irritating cloud of fuzziness at the base of his mind that had sprouted in the past hour. The constant spores not only slowed him down, it alerted others of his presence, of his location, of his weakness. The dust cloud sometimes glowed green in the dark, just like the eyes of skinnies and other freaks, phosphorescent particles that never did him any good.

Thinking of skinnies, one was following him. He knew her, not in a personal way, but in a stranger's way. Short-clawed and mild-mannered, she had kept him fed while others died. He stationed himself outside of her den and waited for the foodbags to show up. He didn't even have to reel 'em in most of the time, since she never left the store for long and shoved the dead foodbags out into the street.

Nowadays, sly foodies traveled in groups, shot at every cough and slip of tongue. Couldn't kill 'em by himself anymore. Even keeping out of sight and pulling around a corner didn't work. He lost more tongue than not that way, all that energy wasted as his starving body struggled to regrow more.

The angries and the jackasses that distracted 'em had left. At first, he had been glad to see 'em go. Angries were dangerous, but the jackasses were glory-hogging kill-stealers that jumped and screeched like idiots and slammed into foodies just to get shot and killed. The only good thing they did was freak 'em out, split 'em up and make it easy to haul one up to a roof. And jackasses killed and ate all the time, little murder machines that constantly needed to refuel. Even when they had a fresh kill, meat still warm and tender, they'd rather jump on another foodie and tear 'em up. Crazy freaks. Liked the trip more than the destination.

Them gone, he thought he'd had free range on the remaining foodbags left, but there were only a few and the ones coming back to the city were prepared. That wasn't fun.

Not that pulling a 200 pound man, without counting his supplies and weapons, up ten stories was fun. Not that struggling with a foodie while slowly beating the life out of 'em was fun. Not that using weak claws to tear off clothes and pierce through skin was fun.

It isn't and wasn't and never will be, but foodbags were foodbags and he had to eat somethin'.

Which brought him back to the skinny. She had made it easy and she wasn't as sensitive as the other skinnies that snarled if he so much as wheezed in their direction. When those foodies showed up, it being nearly a week since she last cut up a meal for him, he waited in excited anticipation. Then shots rang out for seconds too long and he saw 'em run into the street. The foodies laughing as she struggled and faltered to get at one. Saw the blood blossom on her albino skin, each blow enough to kill him a hundred times over. Then she wailed in that sad way, just pleading for help, for anything. He felt compelled to do something, but there were two with guns and he didn't feel like dying that day.

On the roof, he walked back and looked skyward, the expanse above was cloud filled and dull, the breeze a bit to brisk to be labeled mild. Hunger nagged at him softly, had already gone through the pangs of it and his body was used to running on empty. He could still hear her, her cries piercing the silence of the day more than each gunshot. Arm raised, he considered his weakened hand, knots of flesh and gnarled skin that couldn't grip anymore. He remembered when it was strong and sure, when he had quick reflexes and dexterous fingers. The growths on his neck hadn't developed deeply into his brain, didn't push his mind aside as increased pressure promised a stroke like others that had convulsed and died.

She screamed liquid agony and the foodies mocked her. He turned his hand around, brought it down then walked back to the roof's edge. He had memories, many of them and clear as well. But the emotional attachment had long since faded away; that was past, not present. He had been a foodie before, and now he was a freak. Her yell cut out as a blast speckled her stomach into bits of torn skin. The mellow detachment that pervaded his every thought curled a bit as he felt…something. Something from back then when others mattered.

Duty had been important to him, had been his calling. Might be time for a new one. He sighted the main hostile target, shot out the muscular tongue, and stepped back quickly to get out of the immediate line of enemy fire. He had enjoyed a free meal ticket for too long, time to pay up.

Better to die fighting than whining, hoo-RAH.

Then bang, Fourth of July and he didn't have a sparkler.

After the explosion, falling off the roof and getting pushed around by weakasses, he had food for later and a tag-along skinny with a bum leg. It had been hours since the fire started, but it still raged behind them. Spreading out and cutting off options. Night had fallen and corners were dark, but the sky danced in highlighted smoke that reflected down the ambers of lost territory. In the shadows, he had noticed something missing. The skinny's corporeal bioluminescent glow was nonexistent and her eyes were dimmed to a barely there haze.

Weird girl, kept sucking on those… what were they called? He knew this one. He could recall big phrases like systematic grid kill zone initiative and pre-emptive targeting of possible infected hostiles to preserve a low sick-healthy ratio. Which was bullshit for 'kill everythin' that looks funny'. That was before he was the one that was funny, before he had a hard time remembering little things. Still, he had a system to work through that minor handicap.

Sweet. Valentine's. First kisses. Flowers. Dates. Chocolates…Chocolates! Yeah, he got it. Foodies loved those. Was that all she ate? Not the dead she tossed out, those always had all the organs. No wonder skinnies were thin as sticks then.

He couldn't turn his head, so he stopped and turned his body to look at her. She stumbled still and widened eyes back at him, their glow brightening, then looked around worriedly. The top of her head and shoulders were ash-covered, as was everything else around including the Smoker, the dry snowfall of burnt memories. She stood crookedly, favoring one leg over the other, arms hugging the nearly empty bag. After a few seconds of listening for danger, she turned back to him and …her brow furrowed, thin lips set in a disapproving frown, eyes cooling back to a subdued red.

Huh, an expression other than sadness or fury. Definitely a weird girl.

She growled low and took quick steps towards him, stopping when he flinched back. That was part of his new life, being a wimp. It was reflexive, some instinct for self-preservation that overrode common sense and dignity. As he walked backwards, she growled louder and chased him. He turned around, his pace quickened, a sharp cry of victory from the skinny behind him as she limped in pursuit.

This one was a thinker like him, she wanted a guide out of the city and she expected this Pig-Pen to do it. Not that he minded, except for the possibility that a loud anything might set her off and a swipe of those daggers for fingers would end him in no time.

He screamed out once more, calling out to the other Smoker he'd been tailing behind. Several yells returned back from a nearby office building, from the sound of it near the top a dozen floors up. He headed over there, passing the destroyed foyer. Inside was a pukebag, digging in trash, a wilted plant half-eaten in his mouth. It grunted and belched as it eyed the unlikely duo, wet squelching sounds as it tottered closer.

The Smoker grimaced at the fat man; pukebags never went hungry since they ate anything and everything they could get their hands on. Rotting corpses, moldy fruits, weakasses with festering gunshot wounds that weren't quite dead yet. Taking longer strides, the Smoker held his jacket closed, the few foodie organs left kept out of sight. At the rear, he heard indignant cries and the deep groans of the pukebag. He turned back to see the skinny clutching her bag of chocolates tightly as chubby hands tried to pry her arms open.

No way. What was the bid deal about candy? She was about to pop the gasbag and go mad crazy all over the place with muck blinding her. Definitely not good to be around.

Taking slow steps back, the Smoker was waiting for her rueful howl and screeches, but she shook her head and snarled back, the tinge of her skin radiating her anger.

The stairs beckoned him, the intel on where to go and what to do a few floors above. Yet, if she went into a rage now, she'd lose him and become disoriented, might end up too close to the shore a few blocks away. He could hear the rattling waves of gunfire echoing over the water, high caliber weaponry none of the freaks could survive.

Before he understood what he was doing, he pushed the pukebag away once, twice and on the third his intervention ended with a splattering vomit and fleshy bits that clung to his clothes. His kind died easy, pukies died easier. Too much sudden motion brewed up the gasses inside before they had time to burp it out. A knobby hand grabbed the tongue near the mouth's edge and pulled downward, clearing the muck off it. There were no taste buds on it, but the Smoker's memories on the subject of puke were quite clear that that was a good thing.

Looking around, he sighted the skinny from behind an overturned table, spared from the feculent shower. Why hadn't she done that sooner? Just walk away? A curious eyebrow was raised as she considered him, her lips working on another bit of chocolate as she calmed down from the thunderous boom of digested trash that had decorated the room. She walked up, hand outstretched and the Smoker didn't cringe when she peeled off a piece of scalp with thick hair off his shoulder. She then took a step back and just looked at him. And all he could do was cough and gag, wondering what was going on in her head as she obviously wondered what went through his.

But they both lost the power of speech when the infection overcame them. So the awkward silence was all they had to convey to each other.

After a few minutes, another broken scream rang from above, a last call. He had to move before the others decided the fire was getting too close or he'd lose out on the escape plan. He broke into his lunging run, her limping steps resounding behind him.

A few flights up, the stairway was blocked by several office chairs, tables and shelves. He looked around and saw a large arrow painted on the wall; the ones that foodies used for their hidey-holes, the ones his kind used to guide themselves through the labyrinth of a toppling building. It led to an elevator shaft, which judging by the scrapped walls and the jumble of scrap metal at the bottom, was not used by a foodbag in a long time. As he leaned in to climb up the maintenance ladder, he saw that the skinny wasn't following him closely anymore, instead eyeing a vending machine with a large water bottle on the front.

His garbled cry called out to her, but she turned and waved him off. That form of body language hadn't been lost to either of 'em and the Smoker felt put off by the dismissal. Whatever, she probably freak out the others anyway.

As he reached the top floor, another arrow pointing him in the right direction, he encountered another Pig-Pen, except she didn't look the part. There were plenty of female Smokers, but they looked like the weakasses at first glance; no spore cloud, no disfiguring body tumors, but they did have the tongues. They simply hid it better, since it came out of their throats instead of their mouths. They didn't cough, but neither could they speak as they were rendered mute by their mutation. This one had a frayed power suit, a thin scarf wrapped around her neck that hid the protruding tongue.

Head cocked sideways, she smiled wide, her lips stained ruby red with badly smeared lipstick and approached him in what seemed as a parody of sultriness. A mind half there, then. Either she had gone insane, as many thinking freaks had, or the internal growths had messed with her brain. She leaned in, inches from his face and unbothered by the spores he produced and stuck out her normal human tongue, the back of it covered in a black gunk that looked like moss on a riverside rock and smelled like fresh tobacco chew, even through the haze of spores in his nose.

Unable to keep from staring at it, unbidden thoughts of lust and satisfaction filling his head, he was startled when she snapped her teeth shut and wagged a finger in his face. Her other hand brought up a rigid liver to her throat were a thin tongue slipped from between folds of fabric to drag her claim into her gullet. He wasn't surprised to find his pocket felt lighter.

Female Pig-Pens don't fish or hunt or kill anything. But they're really good at getting fed nonetheless.

And he always fell for it.

As she flitted by him towards the exit, he was sure that she would be laughing if she could. The kind of bitch-giggles that cockteases tend to have.

Sullen and embittered, he fished through his pockets, stiffened by dried blood on the inside, moist and slick with bile on the outside and found he only had a ripped lung left. Not much of an offering, but it would have to do.

Down the hallway he encountered three other Pig-Pens, two of which had the red smear of makeup over their mouths. He knew that the jab of jealousy was not only ridiculous. It was foolish. The only way to connect lips was that she had wrapped her long tongue around theirs and swallowed after ripping it loose.

It had never been done to him and for that he was glad, because whatever she had growing on her human tongue made the infection worse. Those two would now have other tongues grow out of their necks, the tumors spreading more quickly over their faces. Still, the look of blissful glee was something to be envied when life was one drab disappointment after another. They passed him and he connected eyes with the one that had a full-grown tongue and shrugged as the other shook his head.

He worked his way to a room with a broken red door, the steel bars bent badly, the lower section dented to hell and back. The room inside was carpeted by a loose layer of spores that made it seem like decades had past for that amount of dust to collect. At his right was a large and detailed map with scratches and smears that weren't a fraction as random as they appeared; at his left large, unbroken windowpanes that gazed out towards the Golden Gate Bridge. Bright searchlights scanned back and forth over the wreckage of the monumental construction, the tracer bullets of high-powered weaponry flashing across its length. He had still been human when they blew that beauty up, though it had been a botched job that partially collapsed sections making it impossible to send heavy reinforcements into the city, yet still allowed angries and jackasses to jump their way through.

A sharp wheeze brought his attention back to the middle of the room, to the wheelchair-bound Pig-Pen that could still speak. He was an odd one. Dust cloud? Check. Bulbous tumors? Check. Tongue? That's a negative.

A robotic cackle that sounded more like an old car than a man introduced his means of communication. A withered old man, just another victim of big tobacco that had gotten throat cancer; had ended with a hole in his throat and a robo-voice for his remaining years. "God somedin' foh me, voy? So'dieh 'ike you? Mush cache a bunch eve'day." (1)

Very ironic and all that. Smoking took his voice away and smoking let him keep it.

He wanted to respond back, say that yes, he brought something; no, he doesn't consider himself a soldier anymore, he went AWOL after all; and no, he hasn't honestly caught any foodbags in over two months.

Instead he hacked up phlegm and tossed the measly lung unto the planner's lap.

"Da id? Kids dees days. Vell, a' lease id somedin'"(2) The wheelchair was electric as well and whirred as it disturbed the soot-like deposit on the floor as the planner lifted a bent pointer towards the map.

"V'idges ow oud, bu' you new dah." (3) Yes, yes he did. Get on with it. The pointer crossed out the three bridges off the map methodically, as though the Smoker needed a reminder of what he saw out the window.

"Deh Va'd dunneh two Oak'and is vad, Cam' dere, bang-bang, dead." (4) Why would he take an underwater tunnel to Oakland? Foodbags came from up north all the time. He needed to know where to go, not where not to.

"Sou'h, hun'ders and danks, 'ungie and mad. Dake d'ain d'acks." (5) It was getting harder to understand the planner, he had no idea what a hunder or dank was, so he smacked the map with both hands to tell the old man to just point out a route. A wheezing breath later, he traced the Caltrain down into San Jose. A long journey south in order to get around the bay. Okay, that was doable. A bitch of a walk but doable, as he could see no survivor camps stationed along the way.

The Smoker turned to leave, nodding once to show appreciation, and left the planner to his solitude.

/////

But the planner wasn't alone. He rolled towards a generator and flicked it on, the rumble and fumes did little to trouble him. He didn't bother connecting the wheelchair to it. The battery would've last past the arrival of the fire to his building. Instead he turned on his two-way long-range radio and cleared his throat. "Co'm in, C-N wesd. Dis is Dona'd."

Static crackled then cleared as a peppy voice chimed through. "Heeey, Donald, baby-honey. This is Lani, love, for C-N west. You manage to get out of San Fran?" The tone was familiar and worried, like that of the doting granddaughter he had never had.

Coughs loosened phlegm as all the spores trapped inside made his throat vibrate all wrong, mispronouncing his words. "No. 'dill drapped." It was a truthful lie.

A sharp inhalation showed that she didn't like the sound of that. "I could still send help, we have people all over." The urgency in her voice, the undertone of hope and fear, so honest and sweet. That's why he liked Lani more than HoundDog, her emotions shined through as a blooming flower. Fragile, yet wondrous at once. Better than humor or brave fronts of the main show.

He had thought of meeting up with survivors, show them that not all infected are that far gone. If he wasn't a contagious smokestack, he might have gone through with it. "No, ol' and ti'ed. Godda res'"

A hand slammed down on her end. "Come on, Donny! We need people like you, got that old-timey wisdom that's hard to come by nowadays." He wished he knew what she looked like, because he could tell that she had started crying and he couldn't imagine wiping the tears away.

"No, 'Ani. I'd b'eak youh hea't." He would've too. Everyone was too hurt. They didn't need salt added to the wound. It was better for the soul to think of the infected as monsters that had to be killed. That needed to die.

A necessary lie. An undeniable truth. He believed both sides and that's why he helped out the other smart smokers, the ones that knew to find him.

A softer voice, unmeasured and spontaneous. "You could never break my heart, viejito. Survived months around zombies, told us when it was safe to get in after the tanks and hunters left. Stop hiding out, you're a hero." He could tell this was her last attempt to convince him. She had been trying to find out his location since day one, had promised to head into the city herself and roll him out, guns blazing. If only.

If only.

His head had started to ache, which he expected. He hadn't opened up the window, hadn't stuck out the exhaust pipe. "I god a reque'd."

Loud sniffs, the snot-filled kind that reminded him of kids. He never thought he'd ever miss children, but there it was. "What would you like? The local airwaves are all yours, honey." That was their custom on the west coast, filling in requests for those that never got a chance to see a friendly face again or heavy metal for scavengers that had gone in too deep and wanted to leave in a blaze of glory.

He hacked up loudly, spat out blackened spittle with a granular quality to it. Wanted to say the name right. "Sinatra." More coughing, this time due to the toxic fumes that had built up in the room. "You 'nouw deh one. I wanna s'eep do id."

Soft melodies started up right away, as though she had been eagerly waiting for such a request. "No problem. Rest well, old man. You're with all of us, okay? Remember, not alone. Never alone. Nobody gets left behind." A deep breath crossed the airways and he could have sworn she was right there as a whisper made its way to him. "…bye"

His eyelids slid down as the pounding headache eased into a hollow beat that swayed him into slumber. Glancing out towards the bay, he could see the Golden Gate Bridge and with half-lidded eyes, the searchlights and tracer bullets hid all the damage and it looked like any other day. Early morning traffic that headed into the city, their bright lights shining through the fog.

The tinkle of a piano and resonating voice followed him into the darkness as his death went unnoticed by the infected several stories down. Yet he was mourned by a young woman miles away that had never met him and would never know his secret.

When the world ends, every death matters.

////

The Smoker had made his way back down to where he had left the skinny, ready to start the long trek south. Surprise, surprise. A delay. He had been gone for little over an hour and she had gone on a binge. The vending machine she had been sizing up had been shredded unrecognizably, water bottles strewn across the floor, several half-empty ones surrounding her as she slept. He thought of shaking her awake, then stopped himself from doing something morbidly stupid. Startling a skinny was bad. He didn't want to know what a grumpy sleep-deprived one would be like.

Cautiously, he stepped back and took her prone form in. He'd never seen one of her kind sleep before. It always seemed that they cried 24/7. That or raged after whatever was unlucky enough to press all the wrong buttons. She wasn't pure skin and bones, though he could see her ribs and the knobs of her spine, could see the curve of a hipbone sneaking past her tattered clothes. He had seen worse, dried out bag of bones with wicked tempers. Her face wasn't as sallow, her cheeks didn't cave into her mouth, her eyes didn't sink into her skull. Looked almost normal, only sick, if not for the white hair, and the claws that scrapped each other as she whimpered in dream.

It might be best to just leave. Spending half-a-day with her was a big enough risk. But it would take days to trek around the bay. Encounter a foodie, stray gunshot, another pukebag wanting her chocola…No, the bag laid empty on the ground. She had finished it.

Huh? He wondered why that bothered him. It felt like bad news. He picked it up and pocketed the package, not that he had a reason for it.

That weird feeling of something was back and he decided to stick around. The fire was sluggish and he could spare an hour, take a rest, rehydrate. Hadn't had clean water since he wandered off from his patrol months ago. He picked up a bottle and failed to grip the cap hard enough to twist. He then tried biting it to twist around with his hands, but he couldn't close his mouth far enough. Failing that, he decided to squeeze it to death, but he lacked the strength to bust it open. He placed the mangled bottle on the ground and wished that he could grind his teeth without losing over fifteen pounds of flesh.

Of course, he knew he lacked the dexterity to turn a freakin' doorknob, what brain fart made him think he had the fine motor skills to handle a cheap knock-off plastic bottle? How had she done it, then?

He walked up to her and, as quietly as a chronically ill person can be, he picked up a nearly empty bottle. Its contents sloshed over him mockingly. Holes. She used her claws to make small holes. Fantastic. His own claws were a manicurist's nightmare at their worst, nothing more.

It helped to remember that pukies were worse off than his kind.

Only a little.

A soft buzz of annoyance, the churning in his gut, restlessness brimming just outside of his thoughts.

Wait. This was odd. Why was he thinking so much? Why was he consumed by inadequacy when yesterday he barely cared that his head was three times too big and he was constantly inhaling something that was growing off of his skin? Why _hadn't _he cared before? Why _didn't_ he do something to stop it? The infection had messed with his head, had made him hide while he transformed into a malformed medical oddity. It had seemed like the most logical thing to do. Hide, wait it out, go on with life.

He was a freak and freaks stalk, freaks kill, freaks eat whatever's around.

A sudden craving for meat hit him. And he wasn't thinking of burgers or steak. It was followed quickly by nausea and disgust, the sensation of digging through lukewarm organs crawling over his skin like fat maggots, engorged on shit and rot.

In a fit of mindless reaction he shook the last contents of the bottle into his mouth, leaned down grabbing a fuller one and finishing that one off. After several minutes, he had gone through all of her leftover water. It didn't settle his stomach, but he knew that vomiting could prove fatal as the tongue wouldn't let it out and he'd choke to death. With every hack, his stomach roiled and he found himself dry heaving while coughing. He wasn't far-gone enough to forget that a sleeping skinny was at his feet, so he struggled to get into another room.

Short on breath, vision narrowing, he slammed his teeth down, severing the protruding tongue, the spike of pain focusing his mind away from the queasiness he'd never felt before. He bent over his knees, gulping in as much air as he could manage and thought that he wouldn't puke after all

Then the three foot long tentacle twitched in a delayed spasm, smacking against his boot. Thoughts of parasites and prickly-headed worms filled his head as his stomach convulsed, unleashing its full contents over the floor and the organ that had just been in his mouth. Knees nearly buckled, yet he managed to stagger back enough to fall hard on his backside, away from the watery mess.

He felt better. His insides still cramped and twisted, his head had a fuzzy monster tickling his brain, emotions he had thought long dead wanted him to scream and sob. Pull out the service pistol currently digging into the small of his back, the one he had conveniently forgotten about as the first pustule of black spores burst on his shoulder.

Still, better than a moment before.

The room, empty and so eminently office-like, spun on a tilted axis, so he closed his eyes and followed the hollow beat that pounded up from behind them. A wave of exhaustion hit him so suddenly he didn't realize he fell asleep.

//////

**Planner dialogue**

(1)Got something for me, boy? Soldier like you? Must catch a bunch everyday.

(2)That's it? Kids these days. Well, at least it's something.

(3)Bridges are out, but you knew that.

(4)The Bart to Oakland is bad. Camp there, bang-bang, dead.

(5)South, hunters and tanks, hungry and mad. Take train tracks.

(6)Come in, C-N west. This is Donald.

No. Still trapped.

No. Old and tired. Gotta rest.

No, Lani. I'd break your heart.

I got a request.

Sinatra. You know the one.

**Hecka long A/N: I'm splitting this chapter in two. Originally I had planned to deal with the Smoker arc in a single chapter then touched back with Peter to set up the next installment. I'm nowhere close to reaching that goal in a few pages, so snip-snip it is.**

I am making it painfully obvious that I live near San Francisco. If you want to know which song it was, search "Sinatra San Francisco".

Thanks for all the comments. I get a review for about every 100 hits or so, which isn't bad considering it's a lower traffic section and I don't have Zoey or Ellis in my summary. Always glad to here when someone enjoys the story and are left wanting for more.

The more reviews I get, the better my traffic will be since people tend to check out fics with lots of comments on them, so even a "Great story, love it." means a lot to me. However, there's no obligation or boo-hooing on my part. I've been a lurker myself.

It takes me some time to write up parts, since I have to look up stuff and verify my scientific mumbo-jumbo, when I'm not writing other fics. So bear with me, please.

**Ever since I've been little, I've thought of extreme ethical paradoxes without knowing what they were. Here's a favorite of mine, tell me what you think if you like. There're even some clues to future developments in the story.**

The best treatment for rabies in a human being at the onset is the very expensive and hard to get HRIG, human rabies immunoglobulin, that's a human antibody for rabies. See that's rare.

Rabies isn't like chickenpox that you get once and then never again. It's why dogs have to be vaccinated over and over again, why people have to be over and over again.

But out there, there's people producing human antibodies, who have been hyper-immunized. Exposed again and again, like people that have been bitten by snakes so often, their blood is anti-venom. They donate their plasma which is heat-treated to kill blood-borne pathogens, filtered and concentrated. Producing life-saving shots that are sent out to those that can afford it.

Not everyone can be a HRIG candidate. The average person barely develops partial immunity even at the late stages of the rabies disease, their brains ravaged irreparably. Only the special few with inhumanly strong immune systems can handle the risk of it.

And the people who get the shot of HRIG don't stay immune. It's loses effectiveness over time, just like getting a tetanus shot, but much quicker.

So who are these people? They're donors, but do they get any payout for their biological success? And when they die, and if there's no replacement, there goes HRIG with them.

What if it was only one person that could produce HRIG?

See that's the kicker, one shot costs thousands of dollars and it's a repeat business. You can't give someone HRIG, then get it out of them since it doesn't last. Leaving that one source, that one guy with the immunity strong enough to be passed on to another person.

What if he didn't want to be part of it all? What if for whatever reason, he wanted to keep all of his blood to himself?

There're other treatments, more painful and less effective, but they exist. It wouldn't be that bad.

But what if he was immune to something more lethal, contagious and widespread, like some new super-rabies, and he didn't want to share? That's a bigger deal, isn't it? Cure found and the guy's selfish.

But what would you do in his place? Which company or government would you trust your body too? Forget about smoking, drinking or high-risk fun, too big of a money cow to lose so easily. There's only so much plasma you could produce at a time, and with high demand comes a high price. Would you charge big bucks and let the rich and famous get the first shots? Would you have yourself bled dry to help the teeming masses that couldn't afford health care, much less the miracle cure?

What of the criminal underworld? People with a lot of power and few morals get sick too, you know? If they knew who you were, and you decided not to share willingly, then you'd better hide.

So that's the ethical dilemma, isn't it? If someone held the cure, should their rights as an individual be more sacrosanct than the survival of millions? Should they be forced to bleed and live for others? Should lives be allowed to extinguish when a solution is at hand?

What if you decided to help, but keep your privacy? Nobody would know where it came from, just like HRIG. What if you didn't want to help, but was kept prisoner?

Who would know the difference?

Who would care?

You'd have red gold in your veins and it's begging to be tapped. Whether or not you'd make the profit doesn't matter, because there's too many people out there that would track you down, tie you up and place a drip in your arm to collect that immunoglobulin.

Now, let's say you were one of the sick and about to get your life back in a single shot; would you care about where it came from? Would you even think about it?

And if you did know that its source was unwilling, would you say no to the vaccine?

Or on a more personal level, if you knew the immune person and their hideout, would you tell?


	12. Week Two: Cooperation

Week Two: Cooperation

**Chapter 12**

Trickles of wetness sprinkled over the Smoker's eyelids, a soft jostling at his side. As he slowly parted his lids, the crust of bad dreams cracking at the act, droplets fell up his nose. He coughed and snorted at the unexpected intrusion, his joints complaining in swollen stiffness as he sat up. An arthritic ache curved his back as his knees slowly straightened out, his sight adjusting to the gloom of the room. The feel of prickly needles and roaming ants coursed all over his body but mostly at the farthest tips, where his toes recoiled at imagined insect armies infesting his boots.

His hands slowly reached up and felt along his now moist face to take in the contours of his grotesque head. Rigid and deflated, the tumors had hardened his skin and throbbed warnings to not press deep, lest they pop. As fingers slowly slid down, he encountered the altered organ that had him check his face; the weight he had grown so accustomed to, the swing of it as he ran, it was gone. The tongue had regrown as was expected, but it was barely five inches and lacked any strength or dexterity. He cautiously stroked it, taking in how thin and decrepit it was when normally a night would have been enough to regrow a full one.

He coughed in dry heaves, lungs struggling to meet the higher oxygen demand of an aware body. An acrid taste of day-old vomit raced up his throat as the Pig-Pen soldier let it run its course, each hack of loosened phlegm stealing away what little energy he had left. Yet he knew that to hold it in would be to drown in his bodily fluids, to suffocate if he so much as walked across the room. As the coughs grew wet and spatters of blood began to decorate the floor, he realized he was freezing. The bitter cold invading a body that no longer raged as his personal furnace. As a tearing sensation filled the back of his throat, the littlest Smoker's tongue broke free and landed between his legs as he sat on the floor, doubled over his outstretched legs. It was a pathetic sight, DOA, stillborn, a wrinkly slice of flesh that had the mottled look of rotten fish.

The shivers that racked his body were no longer just the cold. He was sick.

Infected _and_ sick. A double whammy that mommy's kisses wouldn't whisk away. There was nothing redundantly repetitious or hilariously funny about it.

A heavier splash of water coursed down the back of his shirt, jolting him upright as the skinny pushed against him with her shoulder. The migraine had returned with a brood of little fuzzies. Tiny burrowers that hated light and sound, vindictive vermin that wanted him angry. He turned to her, ready to scream his reedy screech, to push her away and soak her down to see how she'd like it. Her temper forgotten as his mind struggled to function.

Even though he lacked speed, he turned suddenly enough to scare her as she scrambled backwards in a hurried crabwalk, her soft cries sharpening into agonized whines. The water bottle abandoned as it tumbled then rolled into a distant corner, the wet trail of a terrified animal to mark its path. It took the fight right out of him as she fought to inhale deeply, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands and biting her bottom lip till blood flowed. Her body glowed in soft waves of scarlet, eyes lighted pools that floated in the darkness. Thanks to that, and his weakened eyes getting accustomed to the gloom, he could see that she had managed to strap on a large backpack filled to the brim with water, the bottles shoved in haphazardly and sticking out of every pocket too full to zip closed.

It must have taken her forever to fill it without slicing the thin plastic with her claws. By the look of the moist bottom panel, caution could only help her so far. Even though it should have pulled her backwards, she managed to stand up with the heavy burden. All of the freaks had a wicked strength, but that knowledge couldn't stop the Smoker from holding up his arms in expectation of her fall. She looked so frail, twigs encased in rice paper, but looks were deceiving as she steadied herself easily, pulled out a bottle from a side pocket with the tips of her clawed fingers and flung it at his face with that accuracy only angry chicks can muster.

It hit him high on his forehead, an echoing bonk that snapped his head backwards as fireflies filled the dark in his sight. He slammed against the floor, cracking the back of his head, the migraine forgotten only to return pissed off and riled all to hell a heartbeat later. As his eyes refocused, he saw her stand above him, which would have made him grin deviously at the angle had they been normal. Instead he felt dread, a fear that she would kill him and he could not do a thing to stop it. She growled low, tilted her head towards the door then choked back a surprised sob. Her face turned towards the ceiling, one hand touching her neck as the other pressed against her chest as she fought to stay present. Jagged breaths tore her frame as she shook, yet she held on and turned back to the Smoker; no longer commanding, just begging him to hurry.

Deep lines framed her mouth as she grimaced, her body swaying back and forth in a slow tempo as her knees bent a little, one foot petulantly stomping the ground whenever a wavering moan escaped her throat. In a flash of lucidity he realized that it wasn't that she was sick like him; that weird quirk of hers of remaining calm was fading away. She was turning into just any other skinny and it terrified her.

It terrified him.

With a slow resolve he didn't really feel, he gently placed his hands over her shins and pressed lightly. She understood immediately and stepped back, nodding her head as she had taken up biting the side of her left forefinger. Pain to distract, pain to soothe. As he struggled first into a crouch, then to stand straight up, the room seemed to swell then contract in on his senses. His mind kept registering that he was too tall, too thin, that a light breeze would topple him over. It was a hunger feeling, that lightheadedness, made worse by all the aches that echoed with each movement.

What a pair they made, how could he had ever believed that they could walk all the way around the bay?

One step at a time. That's how. One step, then another and he managed to get out of the room, managed to walk down the stairs, managed to get into the foyer, managed to see the bright sunlight of midday pour in as the heat of the fire wafted in from a few blocks away.

Of all the days to oversleep, today was not a day for the snooze button.

From the shadows, his companion in the sitcom of his infected life started to cry. He turned back in time to see her poised with claws above her eyes, about to scratch them out. Of course, she had also overslept, but unlike him, she couldn't stand the light of day. Better the momentary stabbing agony, than risk stumbling with eyes closed and taking a peek. Did she plan on following his coughing voice? On maiming herself again when her eyes healed? If he could speak, or even write with his gnarled hands, he could have told her that there was a better way.

He took notice again of her backpack, just busting at the seams with water. She planned to drink all that; despite everything, she was not going to be thirsty again. Her will to live was so strong that she would do anything to survive. It wasn't even optimism. She exuded this desperation to make it another day. Hell, another hour. But she couldn't do it alone. Damn the world for making someone so strong feel so weak, she couldn't do it alone.

In the pit of his stomach, he felt his days were numbered. The deep seated bone-ache of the terminally ill was drilling away at him. His life didn't really matter anymore. Torn to bits by a skinny or wasting away like a sick dog, it didn't matter. He reached out and grabbed her forearms and pulled them away. Not the tentative questioning touches of before, just a domineering action as he pulled her backpack off to shoulder it on his left. Though her forehead was streaked in fresh blood from wounds already healing, he could see her furrow it in worried dread. Maybe she thought he was going to steal it and run away, but if she didn't have doubts on that he'd already be dead.

That small inkling that she trusted him was a whisper of hope, but he couldn't let it peter out by waiting idly. Much more gently, he reached to her eyes and motioned her to close them. And bless her, she did even as her face collapsed in on itself. Maybe it was the gentle contact, maybe it was that instinctual fear of blind trust when vulnerable. In any case, the pained look just begged him to _pleasepleaseplease don't make me regret this._

Then, even though every bit of common sense told him that skinnies should be kept at a distance, skinnies should not be surprised, skinnies can end him with a single swipe of claws, he leaned down to a knee, pressed her stomach to his right shoulder and lifted her up in a fireman's carry. She shuddered, gasped out some cries and…didn't kill him.

So that was good.

There was no way to carry her all the way to San Jose, not even out of the city. Skinnies were slim as sticks, but they were dense. Tough skin, tough bones, like lead dolls that always looked lighter than reality. Though he could haul up a 200 pound man up a building, Smokers' strength was a short term thing. He was going to tire out, maybe hurry along his demise as his body blared warnings with each step. But he could help her help herself, then she wouldn't need him any longer.

* * *

On his left, the cool breeze from the bay slipped in, chilling him down. On his right, heated gusts from the fire simmered his skin. Though the rain of bullets had long ceased, scattered shots still rang out. On his shore, the bodies of stragglers littered the boardwalk with a single splattering of gore emanating from their heads, which meant a sniper on Team Survivor. A heck of a good one to be able to take into account all the wind and distance from one shore to the other, with a high powered rifle that cost the army a pretty penny back in the day. Yet, the fire had clawed its way all the way here and to walk a block or two into the city was to risk getting cut off and burnt to a crisp.

Obvious metaphors aside, there wasn't any time for guesstimates or dice-rolling. Fire was very much there, sniped corpses didn't look that fresh so sniper might not be there as afternoon darkened the skies much too early. Coastline it is.

* * *

Of the couple hundred volunteers and military assigned to hold the bridges, only a few dozen remain scattered across the coast. Mission accomplished, the hordes have been held back and annihilated, any individual infected that makes it across isn't considered a big enough danger for a full assault, so haul gear and catch some shut-eye. "Fraaanchesssss-ka! Let's goooo." Of course, for some shooting zombies was more of a calling, so they remain to idly practice their craft.

Franchesca carefully reloaded and calibrated her rifle with the care of a mother and the caress of a lover. She adored the damn thing, but it was one of those high-end deals with parts that were harder to come by than a good man and required a steady hand to keep from screwing up. Completely impractical for a zombie apocalypse, in which fast and hard, robust and dependable, mundane and boring was the way to go. Oh, but give her a safe perch and an open range; bang Hunter neutralized, bang Smoker smoked, bang Witch silenced, bang bang Tank goes down. Actually, bang bang call in heavier artillery, bang bang those big guys are faster than they look, bang bang Tank is throwing chunks of cement, bang bang safe perch is no longer safe.

She knew her limitations. Her patience with Willy Billy the Worrywart was reaching one right now. "Shut it. You wanna go, then go."

"But you're my battle buddy! We're not supposed to leave each other alone." Battle buddy. They couldn't come up with something better than that? It made sense; too many solitary survivors just upped and disappeared. Oh, the specials loved themselves the lone wolves. Yet it went against her nature to work in tandem with a group. She was a team player, sure, but the player hidden in the back and helping in the most efficient way possible. One bullet at a time, one kill at a time.

"Take a nap or something. I rarely get a challenge like this." The strong wind that comes and goes, the constant dew weighing everything down, a fire making the far off air waver like a mirage as the setting sun sparked the bay waters in blinding flashes. "This is my master level, baby, and I'm itching to play." She was, how desperately she was. She hadn't been able to find the proper tools to maintain her rifle, nor the ammo for it (half a case left. Savor it, honey). For fuck's sake, her specialty was nearly obsolete. A crappy bargain priced hunter rifle got the job done. She was never going to be truly needed again. A raggedy quartet with shotguns and assault rifles killed more infected in 5 minutes than she could in half an hour.

Willy Billy the Worrywart, she was never able to think of him as Will, slumped his shoulders in defeat and ambled back to the truck. There were other immunes milling about, shooting the shit and admiring the view of how the water reflected the fire and all; she didn't need his keen sense for survival to warn her of danger right then. No, at that moment she settled back into that familiar horizontal position, her eye on the scope (one of those digitally enhanced, unrealistically fragile ones that could see forever and a day past the horizon) and peered across the pond to the oddest sight she'd ever experience.

* * *

As the Smoker tried to trudge as quickly as possible out of the open, a ricochet alerted him that maybe, just maybe, the fire was a better option.

* * *

At first she thought that some survivors had beaten all the odds, had recognized the uniform, had been about to shout to the others in that joy people share during catastrophes when some good news finally shows up.

Then she noticed the tumors on the man, the claws and albino skin, that odd gait infected have. Smoker-without-a-tongue carrying a half-naked Witch, oh la la. What would the prudes think? That joy of good tidings embittered quickly to the sour disappointment of false hope. She pulled the trigger. Ooops, winds blowing a tiny bit faster than she expected.

Breath in, breath out. Take the time to do it right. Savor it, baby. Enjoy every last bullet.

* * *

The Smoker could feel the Skinny tremble, muscles tensing as choked whimpers squeezed out tight lips. All the training he could recall demanded that he crouch low, scuttle to cover, flash distractions then hightail it out of there. Yet the base of his spine had that compressed feeling from carrying more than he could handle, that if he was a decade older he would have thrown his back out by now, that if he put his cargoes down he'd be unable to pick them up again.

Instead he paced his body and do-si-doed, three steps forward, one back, hurry, slow down, stop, run.

At this distance, every little variable messes with a sniper's aim. If he flat out ran, whoever it was would shoot at where he will be, not where he used to be.

A faraway crack made its way to him, shattering a window front close enough to land pebbled glass over the duo. So close, he wasn't half way down the boardwalk and the aim was getting deadly accurate even with his ill-conceived prancing about. He turned towards the water and even with his enhanced vision to see farther, he could not differentiate the gray haze of land on the other side of the bay.

He was at a loss, unsure of what to do as seconds ate away at his remaining lifetime.

* * *

The gun-sight racked across the infected, her fingers twitching minutely to correct her aim, a fraction of an inch on her end translating to a foot on theirs. So nice of the Smoker to about-face her way, providing that larger killzone. The crosshair floated at 1 o'clock over the distorted head to compensate for the parabola of her bullet, the filthy face barely within her sight at the bottom corner.

She grinned tightly, teeth gritted as her finger stroked the trigger. Her fun was animalistic and vengeful, the anger tightened her face in stunning angles that made her beautiful. "Bang ban—no... can't be." Her body went lax as recognition collided with memory. Finger off the trigger, crosshair centered on the infected's face, both eyes wide open distorting her vision as one gazed on her coast and the other peered far away. "No way, can't...Clark?"

Suave Clark, the knight in shining armor with an adorable vulgar streak. He had saved her life and she his, but at the beginning everyone had to keep everyone else alive if they wanted to survive. So nothing special. She had thought of giving him a romp when things calmed down, but by then he had gone MIA, so she just put it out of her mind.

Her shoulders tensed as slight tremors tried to make their way down her arms. Why had she gotten so upset all of a sudden? Clark wasn't a friend, she barely knew him for a couple of weeks, didn't know his last name, where he came from, nothing except he made her laugh sometimes. The click in her throat as she swallowed reflexively forced her to admit that it had been more than that.

The box of shells at her side. He had found several cases, had understood that she couldn't give up on her baby when everyone else wanted her to pick up a piece of junk from Bob's discount gunshop. He had a thing for women that knew what they wanted, flirted without being a creep, was cute enough to ignore the daily cigarette he had to have.

Franchesca squeezed the bridge of her nose and sniffed deeply, her emotions settling back to professional levels. She retracked him back in her gun-sight. He had turned to stumble-run his way across the boardwalk, the Witch on his shoulder swaying as she kept her arms crossed over her face. "C'mon honey, not your first zombie acquaintance, not your first zombie friend. Doing 'em a favor." His face though; the tumors had stuck mostly around the neck and shoulder, obliterating an ear and eating up into his hairline. The eyes were all there, yellowed and filthy, but she saw them anyway, saw _Clark_.

No, she can't see that. Can't think that. She's been at it for hours, strain and exhaustion messing with her head. She reared back, turning away as she rested her assassin-grade rifle between her legs, forehead rested against the barrel for a moment before she pulled away and wiped the area clean. Human sweat corroded metal after prolonged exposure. Before she took notice of it, she had begun to dismantle her weapon, its case laid open like a crib. "Playtime's over, baby. Gonna save those bullets for a rainy day, 'k?"

Footsteps bounced up to her position, the ratty tennis shoes nimbly dodging the debris field in their way. "You good to go now, Franny? It's gonna be dark by the time we get to the base." Good point. He normally had a good point to make, just always in his whiny civvie voice.

A rueful smile curled a corner of her lips as she stood up, the weight of the case resting firmly on her hip. "Will, call me Franny again and I'll save my last bullet just for you."

* * *

As night mercifully fell, Clark the Pig-Pen smoker stumbled into a crouch that quickly devolved into lying down on his stomach. He had carried the skinny for hours, each step sharpening the dull ache in his bones into shards of pain as muscles cramped. He wanted to close his eyes, let sleep take him out of the torture chamber of his body. There had been close calls, the sniper, collapsed buildings that stretched into the water, sudden flareups as a cars and propane tanks lit up to join the ever-growing flame.

Yet they lived.

Before his body could stiffen up the skinny prodded him with an elbow, a hand held a perforated bottle which she drank from to prevent too much spillover. As she offered him the remainder, he had to turn on his side, which took up enough effort that he might as well sit up. And as he drank, he realized that if he could sit, he should try to stand, and if he can stand then he should walk. A nightly rest was part of before, not now.

They walked on as he tried to keep track of where they were. He had hoped to find a shop sooner, and if not, then he knew of a little place tucked away from tourists. One he had noticed as he patrolled the streets to kill infected, before he patrolled the streets to kill the immune.

The skinny had calmed down as night fell, her forehead bumping against the middle of his back as he stopped to establish his bearings. He let her rest it there, her soft sniffs didn't worry him as they didn't sound like the usual echoing wails. There were no tears, but she rubbed her face against the coarse jacket out of habit. The romantic in him wanted to hold her hand, yet the more pragmatic side smacked that idea down in a huff of disbelief.

A lot of ground was covered, the presence of other infected thickening as the fire trailed slowly behind. Thick coughs, wet with malice, echoed down an alley. He recognized the figures immediately, though horribly deformed as they were. The trio from the planner's building, two with obliterated faces and slimy tentacles whipping around their heads standing above the third. The normal one, for a Smoker, lay broken. Red lashings covered an exposed chest, the head beaten and concave, the stomach ripped open and shredded with notably missing organs. They got hungry, those two. Too much of a change really eats up energy reserves and they had been starved to start out with.

Clark quickly looked away rather than risk meeting their eyes. They had their food now, but if it looks like a challenge they might gang up on him.

It shouldn't have surprised him. Puke bags eat the weakasses if they can, Angries ate whatever they could mush up, Jackasses were the first to turn on their own kind when foodies became scarce. What made Pig Pens any better?

* * *

The sun had risen to shine light on a gray day, ash scattering in the wind. It had been harder to carry the Skinny and water than the day before, each few steps were followed by a side-stumble as he tried to maintain balance, one arm continuously outstretched against a building. The skin on his arms had toughened up like jerky, deep crevices welling with blood as they ate through skin and into muscle. The tumors no longer throbbed, instead solidifying like hard-boiled eggs under lifeless skin. Each breath scrapped against irritated lining in his lungs, the phlegm he arduously coughed out thick with putrefying spores.

At least he had made it to the store, its tucked away entrance stained with a wide streak of blood dried enough to flake. The door was below street level; a small sign with a vague name hung from a single link, ready to be knocked loose. As he made it inside, the shadows took a quick turn towards the dark, so he motioned for the skinny to slide of his shoulder. Once she did, he pointed at a display case.

The store was small, specializing in high quality steampunk costumes and accessories. Functional gear and tinkerer's toys, leather corsets and boots, bottles and loose gears. The spot he pointed at had an array of goggles, some with heavy tints and glistening copper frames inlaid with intricate designs of gears and springs. The skinny glanced back and forth, a puff of disbelief filling her cheeks as she browsed the inventory. Yeah, she's a smart one, can see that an obvious solution had slipped by her all this time.

Military surplus stores had been raided quick, costume stores had cheap knockoffs that wouldn't hold up to constant use. Stores like this went unnoticed and forgotten, so scavengers ignored them as they rushed towards zombie-filled malls. Clark had been a secret Renaissance fair lover and was looking into steampunk as an edgier pastime, so he knew that the high end stuff was as good as their exorbitant prices.

She picked up a simpler pair with thick iron frames and emerald lenses, the straps were toughened leather laced with metal that made them stiff yet sturdy; they looked heavy and tough, yet she had no difficulty handling them, slipping them on and tightening the straps by hooking her finger through a reinforced loop. As she looked around, testing her field of vision as she avoided overturned tables and shelves, the Smoker leaned against a wall and let his weight slip him to the floor. She passed by him on her way towards the mid-morning light, each step more hesitant than the last until she was immersed completely. No flinch, no whine, no fear; the goggles reduced the glare without removing her sight.

There, it's done. She would do fine on her own and he can let himself collapse into the corpse his body had become.

Yet she had other plans as she nudged him to move, re-energized by her new-found freedom to explore by day's light. He thought to play dead, act dumb, push her away. The longer he sat still, the more the weariness burrowed in. He was ready to give up the ghost and she kept summoning it back.

Instead of leaving, she crouched to his level and waited. A battle of wills then.

Hours passed and while he wallowed in his aches, she took up some more free shopping to pick out spare goggles that she placed in a shoulder bag that used flaps instead of zippers. Gone was the trepidation and bowed posture as her confidence grew.

The sun had begun to set but the sky remained orange-hued as the fires caught up to them. He could smell burnt plastic and charcoal ash, hidden underneath a slight meaty stench of smoldering bodies. It was a city smell, all those chemicals mixed up with the air, so unlike the cleaner burn of a forest fire. That he could smell it at all made him realize that he'd long lost those constant spores that hovered around him, the mossy smell no longer overpowering everything else.

And he stank. Badly enough to gag when he inhaled the lapel of his jacket, soaked as it had been in offal, blood and filth. At least he didn't suffer the indignity of shit in his pants, most of the infected didn't. Metabolisms had ramped up to the point that everything consumed was digested to fuel mutated bodies and nobody ever had enough to eat except for the pukebags that filled themselves to literal bursting. Weren't there some desert mice that only peed like once a year? He didn't remember enough to know if it was exaggerated bullshit or not, but it felt right.

The moans and groans of fleeing infected grew louder, the pack closing in after the unlikely duo had spent so much time getting ahead of them. The average ones tend to settle in when there's no immediate danger, so it was a cycle with them rather than a singular drive to escape the area. It caught the Skinny's attention and she returned to prodding Clark to move it and he remained as stubborn as ever.

Then she started signing with awkward gestures, pointing outside then at her, then outside, then back at him palms up and shoulders hunched. And he finally got it.

He's an idiot.

She doesn't know where to go, he had never shown her a map and she wasn't leaving him. A guide he was and a guide he was going to be as long as she wanted it.

Clenched teeth and tight fists, he struggled to his feet and took one step and then another. The only way he was ever going to get anywhere.

* * *

Though she limped, Skinny was faster than him. Though she carried both the water and her cache of goods, Skinny had more stamina than him. Though he tried to lead the way, Skinny was in charge of this little expedition.

Not that he minded. Taking charge put her in a good mood, which kept her from turning into dangerous company. Which was becoming the least of his problems.

Clark was broken inside and it was getting worse. The tumors had started to itch underneath, had to fight back the encroaching need to rip the cracked skin from his arms, didn't want to look at his legs that felt wooden and desiccated.

His thoughts were getting clearer though, so he had to deal with the awareness of what he is and the sickening monstrosity that his mind called home.

All in all, paying more attention to her was a better use of his time.

On several occasions, she had found food. First at a movie theater with an overlooked backroom full with chocolate bars, chewy candies and sacks of popping corn. Instead of gorging on the chocolate as he expected, she unwrapped one bar to enjoy as she picked up her favorites to stow away and offered him half of whatever she tasted. Afterward, she slit open the locks on camper vans to find potato chips, beef jerky and canned soups.

He could barely stomach more than a bite or two, yet the regular meals and clean water had done wonders for her. If she wasn't careful, she might end up looking like a foodie. Especially during the day like now, as she walked without a care, too bright for her bioluminescent glow to be noticed, red eyes hidden behind green lenses, short claws easy to overlook. Attract the wrong kind of attention of those too stupid or desperate to trust their instincts. Not that getting pounced on by a jackass would kill her, but it would upset her. She might lose everything and end up back at square one as she raged after those quick sons of bitches.

Couldn't figure how to tell her, so he let it go.

A flurry of sensation grabbed his attention; the back of his neck itched like mad and he reached back to scratch at the spot. The ridge of raised skin between tumor and the remainder of his hairline crackled at his touch, each pass of his ragged claws intensifying the need to dig deeper.

So he did, enough for the ridge to separate from his scalp, his fingertips touching the wetness underneath.

He froze as he tentatively tugged on the mound of dead flesh and found that it would pull easily away.

Images flashed in his mind. The itch had been maggots nesting in his sores. The wetness was his exposed brain as the tumors had eaten his skull away. Pulling off the lumpy mass would rip his face away with it.

The floor rushed at him and he was swallowed by it to be trapped in darkness.

* * *

He awoke to a worried face hovering above, the moon sneaking a look through her hair. Her goggles were pushed up and kept her face open as the dirty white hair framed her face, eyes glowing in waves of red that glistened.

That moment of clarity to consider her was lost as his body convulsed in revulsion, stomach lurching to empty itself of its cannibalism past. He turned away from her and coughed wetly, an amorphous mass forced out of his lungs as he spat out blackened clumps that stank of oily burnt cigarettes. His throat burned as lightheadedness stole his balance, face colliding against a gritty floor that scrapped his skin and set the itching into a frenzy that drove him mad.

Clark ripped off his clothes and dug into his body, standing and stumbling, coughing and screaming. Under the moonlight, he streaked the cold sky as he rend the sickness from himself, paying for his crimes against humanity with pounds of flesh. The scabs on his arms peeled with such hate, legs scraped and stripped as exposed flesh below flared in retaliation. Blood flowed freely and his soul felt cleaner than it had in months, though that might be the shock talking.

The moon wavered in his sight, full and dead like a skull, so he looked back down to earth to see the Skinny screeching at him as scarlet bathed the entire bloody scene.

What had he done?

His bare foot stepped in a toughened clump so he looked down to see it. Despite the dark he could see the outline of an ear. His ear. The ear that used to be on his head then adorned a cancer mound and now lies dead on the ground. Clark touched that side of his face and not only felt the bulge of muscle and ligaments, but the hardened edge of his cheekbone.

Crumpled to his knees, arms motionless, breath held, he stared at the Skinny and opened his mouth. He tried to speak, not knowing what he would say. All that came out was a reedy wet whine that cracked half-way. He knew what he wanted to communicate, that he was sorry, that he was scared, that he was lonely and fearful and had a million regrets and could she please hug him because he doesn't want to die like this and he doesn't remember his mother's name but he can see her face and she's so disappointed and dead. She's dead and his father and brother and that nephew of his that wanted to join the army and be all that he could be like his uncle Clark that was a hero and what a fuckin' lie that was and please she has to survive and find a home and be the one good thing he managed to not fuck up.

But all that came out was a croak.

And that was enough as she embraced him with such care as she returned her own cry of need and pleading, struggling with her infected nature to rock herself into oblivion and let the sadness eat her away.

They had become friends in those few days. He had brought her happiness that fulfilled her more than chocolate could and she had given him purpose that freed him from his stagnation.

And if either lost the other they would die soon after.

A/N:

Sorry for the long wait. I've been busy with a big move and some other major changes in my life. I'm currently big on Prototype fic since I'm pumped for the sequel, but this fic has not been abandoned and we'll be continued on a more frequent basis. Thanks for all the faves and comments. Always appreciated.

Next chapter: Hunters, hunters, hunters! We've seen here that a cure isn't the prettiest scenario, hate to imagine what would happen to Peter if Reilly fulfills her plan.


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